


The Espresso is My Savior, I Shall Not Want

by ShaneAndrew



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaneAndrew/pseuds/ShaneAndrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every writer needs a good coffee shop, and Bilbo Baggins thinks the little family-owned place in the center of downtown is just the environment he needs to help him write his book - an epic tale of unexpected adventures and the like. But when he runs into a combination of insecurity, writer's block, and family squabbles, he'll need more than the café's homey ambiance to fuel his creativity. </p><p>Luckily for him the proprietor, Bofur, is more than happy to cheerfully edit for him in return for Bilbo's tasting of his increasingly inventive recipes. And before he knows it editing turns into friendship which turns into something more, and while Bilbo doesn't really know what's hit him he's more than up for an adventure of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly - apologies for the stupid title
> 
> Secondly - so this is my first foray into the wide and wonderful world of AUs, and all the cool kids are doing it, so what the hell. Also my first time trying third person limited. 
> 
> Third and (not) lastly - ridiculous headcanons abound. You have been warned :D
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!  
> SA

_Every writer needs a good coffee shop._ He couldn't remember where he'd first heard the phrase exactly, but for whatever reason it had stuck with him like a not entirely unpleasant tune that had proceeded to nevertheless happily whistle away in his brain for the next week.

            If he were honest with himself (which he wasn’t), Bilbo would admit it had been only that seemingly trite phrase that had led him to the present moment, hesitating outside of the bright storefront of At Your Service! Brewery. Tan walls were shaded by a green-and-teal striped awning that somehow managed to be simultaneously ghastly and endearingly quirky. The barn-style door’s only decoration was the shop’s logo: a take-away coffee cup sweeping a low bow to a cheerfully grinning, braided pastry. Bilbo found his eye being drawn to the axe that was slicing into said pastry, and was not sure if he should feel uncomfortable or not.

            Well he was already here, was he not? No point in turning back now. Adjusting the strap of his laptop bag, Bilbo pulled the door marked Push, apologized to no one in particular when he stumbled over himself, inwardly cursed then hastened inside.

            It was…odd, the interior of the place. Dim certainly, as there were no windows opening to the busy street outside. But it was almost a comforting dimness, smelling of baked goods and woodsmoke, and gently lit with low-hanging lights. The whole place had a rather woodsy look in general; a rare thing in the middle of such a bustling city. Seats were made of polished and smoothed tree stumps, the tables of thick slabs of the same wood. There weren’t many people inside, which was a bonus, and even better he recognized absolutely none of them.

            Now, he had told himself that there were a great many factors that had contributed to his decision to seek out a nice coffee shop in which to work – as mentioned, Bilbo was not terribly good at being honest with himself despite being blunt with absolutely everybody else. He’d made noises about “a nice place away from home” (he lived with his parents still), “can’t get a decent cuppa anywhere these days” (his kettle was rusted and his coffeepot had suffered an unfortunate accident involving his young nephew and the cat), and “could do with a change of scene” (he’d lived in the same house for the last thirty-odd years). He needed the excuses, could cling to them if anybody gossiped, or worse came up to him and started asking prying questions.

            If there was one thing Bilbo was not ever honest about (not even to others), it was his ardent desire to escape his burgeoning career as a professional landscaper and write fantasy stories until the end of his days. Honestly it was nobody’s business, barely his own really. So he’d begun to surreptitiously look up local coffee shops and cafés, little hole-in-the-wall bakeries even, until one of his rare friends had recommended this place to him.

            “Are ye just gonna stand there lookin’ constipated, or can I get ye anything?”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “Some prune juice in yer cappuccino, perhaps? Ye look all stopped up.”

            For a solid fifteen seconds all Bilbo could do was stare open-mouthed at the man behind the register, who was grinning most unrepentantly at him from underneath his slouch cap. He was clad in an old Dropkick Murphys t-shirt and blue jeans with holes starting at the knees. A small necklace of malachite pieces sat neatly around his neck, the dark green stones highlighting the creaminess of his smooth skin. One large hand was resting on his hip, cocked out to the side.

            “N…no. No, I think not.” Bilbo found himself unconsciously leaning away from the man. “Just, uh –” He quickly glanced at the neat menu on the wall, felt a small flare of irritation at the sheer number of choices.

            “If I might recommend somethin’?” Without waiting for his assent, the cashier turned to peer at the menu and made a show of twirling the ends of his trim moustache. He flicked his eyes back to Bilbo a moment, took in his sweater vest, button up, and slightly wrinkled slacks. There was a small, shiny spot on the bridge of his nose, the result of having his spectacles shoved repeatedly into place. “Seems t’me yer tired but not sleepy, are lookin’ fer a bit of a pick-me-up but nothin’ too sweet. Ye’ll want somethin’ bracing to chase those bad thoughts away and give ye enough energy t’work.” He scanned over the menu again, and turned to Bilbo with a bright smile.

            “How’s a vanilla-apple latte sound? I’ll throw in an extra shot to keep yer brain a-chuggin’.”

            “Alright.” It sounded tolerable enough, and in truth he just wanted to get to his writing. He’d drafted the first few pages the previous night, and was anxious to continue before his flow had a chance to run dry. “A medium one of those, please.”

            “Anythin’ to nibble on?”

            “No, thank you. Just the drink will do.”

            “Yer a writer then?” The cashier nodded to the bag slung over his shoulder as he rung up Bilbo’s order. “We get a lot of ’em through here, eager young things all lookin’ t’write the next ground-breaking somethin’-or-other.”

            “I – of course not. I haven’t time for such indulgences.” Unconsciously he straightened his sweater vest and pushed his glasses up his nose again. He handed a few crumpled bills to the cashier.

            “There are worse vices, I’m sure,” the cashier replied, taking Bilbo’s heated assertion in stride. “Nothin’ t’be ashamed of. Yer not just here t’have a drink though, at least not to my eyes. What brings you to our fine, upstanding house of beverages?”

            “Unless I’m much mistaken, that doesn’t matter so long as I pay for my order.” Shoving his change into the pocket of his slacks, Bilbo turned swiftly on his heel and so missed the momentary gleam in the cashier’s eye, accompanied by impressive dimples as the man’s grin deepened.

            Choosing a small table tucked into an alcove near to the back of the place, Bilbo slid into the seat facing away from the door and surreptitiously dug out his laptop and notebook. A small black pen was laid next to the notebook, neatly divided into separate sections. He flicked over to the outline he’d scribbled out a few days ago as the screen flickered to life, skimmed through his notes for the first few chapters.

            Glancing around to be sure no one was watching him, he clicked through to a set of password-protected files and opened the one simply marked _Draft 1_.

            “‘There and Back Again’? Good title, that.”

            Bilbo jumped, slamming the computer shut. He hadn’t even heard his drink being called out at the pick-up counter, much less the cashier coming to deliver it. Blushing, he turned to face the man.  

            “Ach, no need t’look like ye just got caught with yer hand in the cookie jar.” He set a steaming mug next to Bilbo. “Now if you need to dramatically spill yer drink for some reason, be sure to knock it outwards in a wide sweepin’ motion. It’ll help t’show what ye’re really feelin’ and ye needn’t ruin that pretty machine of yers.” He winked at Bilbo before sauntering back to the counter, a single braid swinging just past his wide shoulders.

            Huffing a bit, Bilbo wriggled his own shoulders and took a sip of the latte. He was pleasantly surprised; the sweetness of the vanilla was very evenly blended with the tartness of the apple flavoring and the dusting of cinnamon on the frothy top. And the extra shot of espresso gave it just the right amount of kick.

            He felt a small smile spread across his face, and found himself wondering how it was the cashier had known so easily what it was he’d wanted, needed to get himself going. It was even delicious enough that he might be able to forgive the man his unusual, untoward remarks.

 

 

The coffee was long since drunk and another mug had joined the first. The outline portion of Bilbo’s neat little notebook was no longer so neat, with hastily scrawled ideas and excitedly circled phrases littering the margins like autumn leaves. Bilbo had hardly moved but for a quick trip to the restroom some two hours ago.

            He couldn’t recall when last he’d felt so vibrantly alive.

            He sat slightly hunched over his work, fingers all but flying over the keyboard. And here he had thought the expository parts of his story would be the hardest to write, and altogether too dry as there was no real action to them. But it was pouring out of him, and he’d the first chapter nearly done already. Images and bits of dialogue were swirling through his imagination in a colorful cascade, fueling his world-building.

            He sat back a moment, pushing his spectacles to the top of his head and scrubbing a hand over his eyes, which were admittedly becoming rather strained. Oh, but it was worth it, he thought. It was so worth all the waiting and angsting he’d endured before finally bullying himself into starting this project. He doubted anything much would come of it, but that was more than fine with him. He’d only ever wanted to do this for himself first.

            He glanced around the shop, starting a bit when he realized he was the only one still seated. Two other men were standing, one with auburn hair and the other with silver-streaked black, chatting by the counter. When the cashier, the one with hair the color of dark chocolate, came through the door to the back the auburn haired one waved a scone at him with a chuckle.

            “These may be your best scones yet, brother.”

            “Oy, what’ve I told ye about nickin’ me pastries?” But the brown-haired one was grinning, enjoying the game. “Ye’ll ruin yer teeth if ye keep up eatin’ everything I bake.”

            “Nonsense,” the other put on a look of mock affront as he took a healthy bite of the treat. “If these’re bad for my teeth then by extension they’re bad for the customers, as such I’m just doin’ the community a favor by sparing them from rampant tooth decay.”

            Bilbo chuckled in spite of himself, but stopped short when the brown one looked his way.

            “Mayhaps our friend the writer over there can settle this fer us.” He picked up another scone, tossed it in Bilbo’s direction. He caught it reflexively, raised his brows at the trio looking expectantly at him.

            “It’s…very nice?” He faltered, not understanding. “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know what you lot are on about.”

            The black-and-silver one shook his head, and gestured firmly with his hands, grunting a bit. Bilbo was not familiar with sign language, but whatever had been said had the auburn one roaring with laughter.

            “That’s no way to speak of a customer,” the brown one chided lightly. “Ye’ll have t’excuse my idiot family,” he said to Bilbo as he crossed to his table, took the scone from his unresisting hand. “They tease everybody like it’s goin’ outta style, most of all each other. Bifur, that’s the geezer with the silver in ’is mane, said that y’must be as dense as this wee scone but that you wouldna taste nearly as sweet.”

            “How delightfully graphic of him,” was Bilbo’s dry rejoinder. He was in just a good enough mood from his productive bout of creativity that he couldn’t be too mad. “You’ll have to inform him that he’s not my type anyway.”

            To his great surprise the brown one’s eyes gleamed as he turned to sign Bilbo’s words to his cousin. The man looked satisfyingly surprised and the auburn one chuckled and slapped him on the back.

            “Hang onto that one, Bofur,” he said, taking another bite of his treat. “He’s got a sharp tongue on him.”

            “I should hope so.” Bofur turned back to collect Bilbo’s mugs and grinned at him yet again. Bilbo was beginning to suspect his face had frozen that way some time ago. “Hate t’do this t’you luv, but we officially closed ten minutes ago.”

            “What?” He glanced at his watch. “Oh blast it all, I’ve missed supper!”

            “Sounds more like a ‘bollocks’ situation then a ‘blast it all’ one t’me.”

            Bilbo hardly heard him, preoccupied as he was with shoving his notebook and papers and laptop back into their bag. He’d missed supper and that meant he’d missed his time with his nephew. He’d never done that before. He hoped Frodo wouldn’t be too mad at him.

            “I have to go. I have to see him,” he muttered to himself.

            “Ah. Well, best not to keep the lad waiting.” Bofur put the cups on the counter and gently shooed Bilbo towards the door. “Enjoy yer night out, mister…?”

            “Baggins. Bilbo Baggins. Good night, and thank you for the coffee.” He all but slammed the door behind him in his haste.

            Bofur stared after him a moment, his smile no longer quite reaching his eyes. “We’re ever at yer service,” he murmured under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo angsts more than he should and Bofur showers him with ridiculous flattery to get him to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is the second fic where I've killed off Frodo's parents; I find it easier to keep that piece of canon material. Have some non-canon survival of Bilbo's parents as a supplement :P

Frodo had been mad at him, but not too mad. The only problem was that in order for Bilbo to ensure his nephew safely arrived at the state of ‘not too mad’, he’d had to explain exactly where he’d been and what he’d been doing. His seven-year old nephew had recently entered into a phase where he liked to question absolutely everything, and would only be satisfied once he’d been given an answer that covered every detail that even remotely pertained to his original question. And while Bilbo usually found this habit amusing enough, spinning long and ridiculous yarns to satiate the child’s ever-growing curiosity, this time around he’d been more than a little reluctant to disclose his whereabouts and actions.

            But Frodo was his nephew, probably the closest he would ever come to having a child of his own, and that meant that he was treated a fair sight better than anybody else. The boy had come to live with him but two years previously, following his parents’ death in a car accident, and Bilbo had sworn to do his very best to raise the boy good and proper.

            He thanked his lucky stars that Frodo had already loved his regular visits to Uncle Bilbo’s house. It had made the transition to a new home easier for the then-five-year-old, and ever since then Bilbo always made sure they had some time together, just the pair of them, every day. He knew he would never replace his nephew's parents but he’d be damned if he didn’t ensure the youngster knew how very much his uncle loved him.

            Even now, trapped at a desk at the office, Bilbo winced a bit at the look Frodo had given him when he’d gotten home – confused and hurt and his blue eyes bright with anger.

            “Where were you? You missed supper!” The boy had flung himself into his uncle’s arms, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be furious with him. “Tell me exactly where you were or I’m telling Nana Donna on you!”

            Choosing the lesser of two evils without hesitation, Bilbo had quickly told his nephew of his afternoon excursion to a coffee shop to do some writing. While not an ideal situation, it was far preferable to facing his mother Belladonna’s wrath. She’d never approved of what she called ‘thoughtless jobs’, those who worked in writing and art and music. She’d always steered Bilbo to follow precisely in his father Bungo’s footsteps, and that meant the rather monotonous job of landscaping. Sure, every client wanted something different, but Bilbo had never been a particularly visual person. Besides, if he was going to create he wanted to create something from _his_ imagination, not from the whimsy of others.

            No, Bilbo was not and likely never would be a visual artist. His craft lay in storytelling, young in the art though he was. He just instinctively knew it suited him far better than blueprints and spade-digging ever could.

            “I just went out for a little while, to a café downtown to do some writing,” he’d soothed. “I got caught up and lost track of time, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”

            “Well it _better_ not.” He’d raised a forefinger and shaken it at his uncle, much as Nana Donna was wont to do, but his eyes had cleared a little. “I’ll be _watching_.”

            Later, when Bilbo had been tucking him into bed, Frodo had inquired as to what it was he’d been writing about. Bilbo had initially deflected the question, making vague comments as to the plot, but he’d eventually caved when Frodo had let his eyes water a bit, coupled with an impressive pout. Secretly pleased that someone besides him actually seemed interested in his work (and inwardly wondering when he’d become so easily manipulated), he’d let spill the major points of the story in exchange for Frodo’s promise to not breathe a word to either of Bilbo’s parents. The boy’s eyes had all but shined with mischief then, before he’d held up his pinky and promised to keep his uncle’s secret.

            “Will y’ read it to me?” The sleepy mumble had come out of nowhere, Frodo’s little hand held snugly in his own.

            “What’s that, my lad?”

            “Y’r story you were writing today,” he yawned, closing his eyes. “Y’ should read it to me when it’s done.”

            Thankfully Bilbo had been spared of responding to that startling request, as his nephew had started snoring softly within seconds.

            He let his thoughts drift back to it now, rather than look through the details of his next assignment. It was true enough his nephew was always happy to spend an afternoon playing at being a pirate or a cowboy or some such thing, but he’d never taken nearly as much interest in literature as Bilbo had. Although, given that he was penning a fantasy adventure of what he was hoping would be epic proportions, the boy might like it alright after all.

            But what if he didn’t? What if, after months, maybe a full year or two of hard work and long nights and countless cups of coffee Bilbo finished his first ever novel, presented it to his nephew only to have him dismiss it? What if he gave his nephew this huge world he had created, and all he got in return was a shrug?

            He’d already been content with just writing this thing for himself, but now that Frodo knew about it he felt as though he were writing it for him as well. It had been all fine when he’d only his own standards to worry about. He did not want to disappoint his nephew’s faith in him to churn out a good story.

            Ah hell, he couldn’t work properly whilst occupied with such thoughts as these.

            “I’m going to lunch,” he called to his father as he scooped up his jacket, phone and keys. “Be back in thirty.”

            “Mm. Take an hour and grab something for me too, would you?”

            Bilbo cocked a brow, slowed a bit. His father was unwaveringly devoted to his work, and often forgot to eat lunch unless he was reminded. Bilbo supposed he should feel grateful that he was at least acknowledging that he needed to eat, but he felt a bit disconcerted all the same.

            “Yes, of…of course. I’ll see you in an hour.”

            “Mm.” Bungo had already returned to his sketchbook, working on the pool-and-garden combination they’d been commissioned for that morning and that Bilbo had had so much trouble concentrating on.

            He carefully buttoned his double-breasted coat as he stepped out into the crisp November air; the garment made of soft burgundy wool that brought out the few gold highlights in his otherwise dirty blond curls. Its warm weight was a welcome, comforting one during this slow slide of autumn into winter.

            Bilbo shivered a bit, hunching against the breeze that danced through a clear sunny sky. He was not a creature of winter but rather of springtime, when all was soft and warm and golden-green. He liked being able to stay outside to see the sunset without freezing, and enjoyed watching the world blossom gently back to life after months of snow and sleet.

            Hm. He could do with a piping hot cup of tea, and perhaps a sandwich for his lunch. Or soup, maybe.

            He was pushing through the door of At Your Service before he really registered where his feet had taken him; he hadn’t realized how close the shop was to his workplace. Shrugging, as it was too late to leave politely, he joined the small queue and took some time to rub his hands together and attempt to sort through the vast menu.

            “I’m tellin’ ye, it’s nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

            “You never were an accomplished liar, brother.”

            Ears perking, Bilbo let his eyes glaze over as they skated over the menu. He saw the cashier from yesterday working at the espresso machine alongside his auburn-haired brother, who seemed to be teasing the man relentlessly.

            “Don’t think I didn’t see you flirting up a storm. You and that devil grin of yours.”

            “Sure and I don’t wonder whether all those sweets ’ave addled yer brains. Leave it, Bombur.” Was the cashier – Bofur, that was his name – was Bofur blushing? Outwardly his expression was neutral enough as he expertly made the drinks, but there was just the barest hunch to his shoulders, the slightest extra color in his cheeks.

            “I’m sure if you just keep dotin’ on him, you’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time. Literally.” Bombur’s grin was wide and saucy, utterly untroubled as he called out a pair of coffees.

            “I told ye t’leave it, ye gobshite. Or no more dessert until –” He abruptly cut himself off as he noticed Bilbo, who looked away a split second too late. He smiled all of a sudden, full and toothy though Bilbo could swear his cheeks became just a little bit pinker. Uncomfortably aware of a flush creeping over his own face, he belatedly pulled out his phone and pretended to fire off a text. Pretended not to hear a giggle abruptly stopped by a well-placed elbow to the giggler’s gut.

            “Excuse me, sir? What can I do for you today?”

            “Ah, a large earl grey would do nicely. Also, what soups have you got?”

            The cashier, a teen with a sandy blond bowl cut, chewed at his lip and studied the register with an air of quiet franticness.

            “M-mister Bofur? I can’t remember what soups we serve.”

            “It’s alright, laddie. Ye’re still trainin’ yet and it’s nothin’ to worry on.” Gliding smoothly to the youth’s side and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, he turned him towards the menu. “No shame in lookin’ to yer references.”

            The teen peered closely at the menu, lips moving silently for a moment. Bofur gave him a nudge and he jumped a bit before turning back to Bilbo and giving him a watery smile.

            “We serve clam chowder, cream of potato, tomato bisque, bol…bouillabaisse and broccoli cheddar,” he rattled off. “Which would you prefer to eat?”

            “Tomato bisque, please.” Bilbo tried to smile at the youth, though his own mood wasn’t the best. He returned it shyly and slowly, carefully rung him up.

            “Large earl gray for Bilbo,” Bofur called as Bilbo was given his change. “One tomato soup.”

            “Thank you –” Bilbo flicked his eyes down to the trainee’s nametag – “Ori. You did well.”

            Ori brightened a bit before ducking his head. “Thank you, sir.”

            Bofur gave the teen a nudge. “Go on and have a break, laddie. Ye’re doin’ marvelously; go an’ treat yerself to somethin’ sinful.” Once Ori had slipped away, Bofur turned back to his customer with a cheeky grin turned up full wattage – only to falter as he realized the man had gone back to the table he’d sat at the night before.

            Bilbo had given into his brooding and so was more or less unaware of the observance concerning his person. Idly he tapped his fingers in a stuttering rhythm, wishing he’d had the forethought to bring a pad of paper and a pen with him. If he could just write down all these things, get them out of their endless circling race through his brain and onto paper, perhaps he could look at them more objectively.

            He obviously couldn’t stop now that Frodo knew and had asked after it (and really he’d never intended to stop anyway; a small rebellious part of him had insisted he wouldn’t stop no matter what people said), but all the same…he sighed, placed his cheek upon his hand. What if his worrying about his nephew’s opinion of the story, his opinion of him, made it so that he was afraid to write, and when he did what if it didn’t come out as he’d originally intended? What if it made the story less interesting? Would he start to resent Frodo for his unknowing intrusion into the most private area of his life? What if Frodo loved it but he didn’t? What if it was the other way around?

            “And here I thought you actually might ’ave liked coming here.” The words were teasing, but there was a tentative gentleness to them that had not been there yesterday. A mug of tea and a small bowl were set in front of him, and before Bilbo could realize he was being addressed Bofur plopped himself down in the seat opposite. “What’s on yer mind, sunshine?”

            Bilbo blinked a few times, then pulled the soup and tea towards him.

            “Couldn’t get enough of me goods, eh?”

            “I actually ended up here accidentally, if you must know.” Unsettled, but not really registering the conversation, Bilbo idly stirred his tea. “I’m on my lunch break.”

            “Ah, I should’ve guessed. Do try the soup; we’re often told it’s the city’s finest. But yer lookin’ troubled as three thunderclouds t’day. Did yer date go badly then?”

            Bilbo sputtered a bit around his first spoonful of the thick, savory liquid. “Date? What date?”

            “Las’ night you left here all of a flutter, mutterin’ along th’ lines of ‘I have to see him.’ Now I’m just dyin’ fer gossip, especially from so fine a figure as yerself. Who’s the lucky lad?”

            Bilbo eyed him a moment, cup of tea held halfway to lips that were quirking in spite of himself. “You’re rather foolish if you really think I’m the stay-out-late, feverishly romantic dating type. I was referring to my nephew. We usually spend some time together each day and I missed it due to selfishly staying here all night, and he was cross with me. Rightly too.” He sipped at his tea then, moaned a bit at how perfectly it had been brewed. “Ah, that’s the stuff.”

            “Ye’ve a nephew?” The skin around the other’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Ah, now how could a wee child be cross with you? I’d wager he knows ye love ’im.”

            “Well I certainly hope so, I do try. It was just I missed my time with him, all for some foolish book, and –” Abruptly he clammed up, realizing that he was spilling all this personal information to a perfect stranger. He glanced down at his soup, surprised and a little annoyed that it was half gone already; it was rather good and he’d meant to savor it.

            “Did – did you put some sort of truth serum into this?”

            Bofur’s laugh was bright and full-bellied, spilling joyously out of his throat. “Oh Mister Baggins, you do wound me so. However can I win back yer esteemed affections?”

            “What – I don’t –” Baffled, fighting the extremely odd impulse to join in the other’s laughter, Bilbo mustered up the sternest look he could manage under the circumstances (though truth be told better attempts have been made by baby sea otters). “I’ve no idea as to what you are referring to.”

            “Come now, ye’re smarter than that.” Bofur gave him a roguish wink. “Why, if yer half as smart as y’are handsome I bet you could talk rings ’round us all.”

            Oh, but his jaw ached with the strain. “Qu…quite.” Letting loose a somewhat strangled cough, not at all edged with a giggle fighting for freedom, Bilbo gulped down the last of his tea and put a few dollars on the table. “Give those to Ori with my thanks, would you?”

            “And again I am rejected!” Sighing heartily, Bofur pulled a long frown. “Just ye wait, Bilbo Baggins. I’ll win ye over yet!”

            “Of course you will.”

            Bilbo just managed to get out the door before he let an unnaturally large smile burst out over his face, his laughter close behind though muffled by a gloved hand.

            What an odd person, that Bofur. As Bilbo went to the deli a few doors down to pick up a sandwich for his father, he pondered whether this blooming warmth in his chest was due to the quality food the little shop had to offer, or if it had anything at all to do with a certain one of its employees. Whatever the cause, he went about his day with his previously black mood now curiously lifted, and just a little more bounce in his step.  

            Although he did not, sad to say, notice these things consciously. As has been pointed out before (and will likely be pointed out again), Bilbo was not very good at being honest with himself.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn’t get a chance to really do some serious writing again until Friday, and even then it was hastily scribbled stuff in his notebook as he waited to pick Frodo up from school. Perhaps tomorrow he could go by the shop for a few solid hours and get all of this onto his computer. It made him nervous to have it written down on actual paper, as someone could easily get hold of it and see what he was up to. Worse, if they did they would be looking at pieces of his book that were Not Done Yet.

            If there was anything Bilbo truly feared in the whole of this literary venture, it was anybody besides himself laying eyes on even a sentence of his work before he’d polished it, perfected it, checked it thrice for errors and glossed over it with a metaphorical polishing cloth.

            Pen dancing messily (read: tripping like a newborn foal) over the paper, Bilbo barely heard the ring of the school bell as he worked at the first of several key moments – his protagonist’s decision to join the quest offered to him. He found himself grinning a bit as he sketched out the play of events, enjoying himself.

            That is, until he was nearly knocked off his feet as a little blue blur crashed happily into his legs, hugging him fiercely about his hips and causing the notebook to fall from his grasp and leaving a long black streak of ink as it disconnected from the pen.

            “What’s that, Uncle?” Curious as ever, Frodo stopped hugging him in favor of stooping down to pick up the notebook, eyes sliding slowly over the page. Widening, beginning to brighten with interest, before Bilbo quickly took it from him.

            “Hey, I wanna see it!”

            Bilbo shook his head urgently, clutching the thing to his chest and blushing furiously. “It’s not ready yet.”

            “Ready for what?”

            “Reading.” Hastily tucking the notebook under one arm, slipping the pen into his pocket, he took firm hold of his nephew’s hand and started towards his car.

            “Now, how was school?”

            “When’s it gonna be ready?”

            “Hm? When is what going to be ready?”

            “For reading.” He smiled up at his uncle, oblivious to the turmoil swirling inside the man. “I toldja I wanna see it.”

            “Like I said, it’s not ready yet. It probably won’t be for a long time yet.”

            “Why?”

            “Well, I…if you must know, it's because I have a rather extensive plot planned out, as well as some rather important character arcs that shall take a good deal of text to detail adequately, and I do want to do this story justice, and it must be done to my standards before anybody gets to read it. That’s why.”

            Frodo wrinkled his nose as he clambered into the back of Bilbo’s station wagon, puzzling over his uncle’s words. “But _when_ are you gonna finish all that stuff?”

            Bilbo bit back a sigh. “I don’t know, Frodo. We’ll both just have to wait and see, I suppose. Believe me, I’m anxious for it to get going too. Now tell me about your day. What did you learn?”

            “Nuthin’.” A brief pause. “Is it ready yet?”

 

*          *          *

 

He had two chapters down and was stuck quite firmly on how to begin the third. He’d banged out a rough beginning only to discard it, had tried again after taking a break to scan the news, but eventually just deleted his few stilted attempts. The cursor sat blinking on the blank screen, taunting him.

            Muttering under his breath, he scrolled up to read through the last few pages of the previous chapter, adding a comma here and changing a word or two there. Flipped through his notebook, frowned over the vague and largely unhelpful scribbles. Winced at the long pen line from where he’d dropped the thing yesterday. He made a mental note to not draft without his laptop handy, or at least to not draft when anybody else was even remotely nearby. This was his first real writing-project, and he was determined to keep every bit of it hidden away until it was perfect.

            Or as near as he could get, anyway. He was only human after all.

            “So what part are ye at now? Has th’ daring if cliché prince come t’sweep the princess off’f her stereotypically wee feet yet?”

            Bilbo saved and closed the draft in one smooth motion, bringing up his desktop of an enormous library.

            “You do have a habit of sneaking up on innocent persons, don’t you?” Despite his accusation, Bilbo found he could not be too irritated at the interruption, as he hadn’t been getting anything done anyways. “Whatever do you think to accomplish with such behavior?”

            “I’ll answer yers if ye answer mine.” Bofur cocked his head to the side and smiled. He was dressed in a green tank-top today despite the growing chill in the air, and a button-strewn, sleeveless denim jacket over that. The just slightly too-tight shirt exactly matched the shade of his eyes, though they were devoid of their usual sparkle. Indeed, upon closer inspection there appeared to be a faint bruising under the man’s eyes, and Bilbo found himself wondering if he’d had trouble sleeping of late. What was wrong?

            “Nothin’s wrong; no need t’look at me like that.” Something like a defiant vulnerability flashed through the mask of general agreeableness, just for a moment, before he was smiling easy again. But it was belied by the hard set of his shoulders, the tense ridge of his spine. Something was definitely troubling him.

            “How about this,” Bilbo was saying before he could stop himself. “You go and get yourself a treat and tell me what’s bothering you and I’ll give you a clue as to what I’m up to. Don’t argue.”

            Now where had _that_ come from? This wasn’t him talking to Frodo after the boy had had a rough day, this was just some bloke he happened to know by caffeine-proxy. His problems weren’t Bilbo’s business any more than Bilbo’s book was his business. Why did he feel this sudden urge to soothe the man?

            “Oho, what’s this? Orderin’ me about in me own shop, is it?” Though his tone was playful, Bilbo could tell his heart wasn’t really in it. “If I must, Mama Baggins.” He strode quickly behind the counter, made sure his brother and cousin weren’t too swamped, grabbed a brownie and returned to Bilbo’s table. Scooped up an extra stump-chair with his free arm and had Bilbo momentarily if unwillingly fascinated by the bunching of muscles in Bofur’s arm – the man had to be at least ten years his senior but was apparently stronger than he looked.

            Swallowing audibly, Bilbo cleared his throat a bit and peered over the tops of his glasses at the other.

            “Now then. You’re not yourself, and don’t bother with any ‘I can’t fathom what ye mean’ nonsense; I know the look of someone who’s had a not-great day. What’s troubling you?”

            Bofur shrugged and took a healthy bite of his brownie and started to explain, his words for the most part muffled by the chocolate.

            “What do you mean, the shop’s not what it was?” At the other’s shocked look he nearly smiled. “You forget, I’ve a young nephew who’s tried just the same tricks when he doesn’t want to answer my questions – I like to think I’m becoming rather proficient in full-mouth deflections. Also, it’s rude to talk with one’s mouth so stuffed as yours.”

            Bofur finished chewing, swallowed and made a show of entirely avoiding Bilbo’s gaze. “Ye got what ye wanted, did ye not? I answered yer question, now ye’re supposed to answer mine.”

            “Very well. You were right, that first day. I am here to write.”

            He perked up a little at that. “Knew I had ye pegged from th’ start. What about?”

            “Ah ah ah,” Bilbo waggled a finger at his table-mate. “I only said I would hint as to what I was up to. I made no promises to divulge the content.”

            “If I tell ye what’s wrong without me mouth full of brownie, then will ye tell me?” Bofur looked hopeful then, widening his eyes in just the same way Frodo had the habit of doing when he wanted something. But Bilbo shook his head firmly, crossed his arms over his chest. That was private.

            “Please? It’d make me feel better if ye would.”

            _Oh, hell._ Did he really have to play that card? Bilbo didn’t want to talk about it. This was _his_ project, _his_ baby. He had already told Frodo more than he’d meant to and that was bad enough. Now he’d been fool enough to let slip to this man he hardly knew what he was doing, and now he’d likely hound him for it with utter ruthlessness. Charming, sweet-talking ruthlessness that he may or may not have enjoyed at some level, but endlessly in any case. And to top it off he was saying it would help him feel better (goodness only knew how he figured that). It was possible he was just saying that to get Bilbo to spill, but something about the earnestness in the man’s gaze told him otherwise.

            Bilbo huffed a sigh, glanced nervously around to be sure no one was eavesdropping. “Alright. But you must understand that I do not want to talk about this, and that you _must not tell anyone of it_. Ever. Not one word, am I clear?”

            Bofur studied him for a moment, all hints of teasing vanished from his face. After what seemed an infinitely long while, he slowly nodded. “Your secret will follow me t’the ends of the Earth. And I won’t laugh, I promise.” His lips quirked a bit then. “No matter how many cliché princes might be a part of it.”

            “R…right.” He took a steadying breath, then another. If Bofur laughed at him he might never be able to come back here again, and that thought saddened him as he was starting to grow rather fond of the place. _Don’t you dare laugh,_ he admonished silently. _I will walk right out of here and not look back if you do._

            “It’s – well, you see – There’s this…Hobbit, and he goes on an adventure with a group of D-dwarves to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon.”

            The words were said all in a rush, as though he were afraid to say them and just wanted the confession to be over as quickly as possible. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, absentmindedly wringing his hands together under the table. Bofur simply sat staring at him, his expression unreadable for the first time since Bilbo had met him.

            “Um. That’s the general gist of it.” Shyly, looking away to study the grain in the tabletop, he asked, “What – what do you think?”

            “What’s a Hobbit?”

            Oh no, now he was _interested_. “Um, well it’s not the easiest thing in the world to explain, it would make more sense if –”

            “If I read it?” The toothy grin Bilbo was coming to know bloomed suddenly across Bofur’s face, the sparkle returning to his eyes. “Sure and I’d wager ye’re in want of an editor, t’make sure ye’ve no spelling or grammar errors. And t’make sure the story’s got proper continuity, and that th’ characters are believable, and fer general feedback an’ constructive criticism.” Beaming, he leapt up and on impulse threw his arms around Bilbo’s neck before dancing away again. “I’d love to!”

            “Keep your voice down!”

            “Ah right, sorry about that.” Belatedly realizing that several pairs of eyes were on them, Bofur cleared his throat imperiously and resumed his seat.

            “I never said I would let you _read_ it!” Bilbo was more than flustered now, and still reeling from the other’s impromptu embrace. That such a small thing could cause such a surge of heat in him was disturbing in its own right, but he’d worry about it later. “It’s not yet ready for prying eyes.”

            Bofur bestowed an indulgent smile upon him. “That’s what editors are for, sunshine. T’make it suitable for ‘prying eyes’ as you say.”

            No. No, no, _no_ this was _not_ happening to him. “I – haven’t the funds to pay for such services.”

            “Who said anythin’ about money? Dreadful stuff. No, I’d only ask for an exchange of favors – My magical powers of editin’ prowess fer yer tastin’ of some recipes I’m dyin’ to try out. Nothin’ nefarious whatsoever.”

            “That’s it?”

            “That’s it.” Bofur must have sensed a win, because he leaned in, lowered his lashes and whispered conspiratorially in Bilbo’s ear.

            “I’ll even allow ye a free cup o’ joe fer every chapter y’let me look at. Or tea, I’m not picky. Ye’ve a fondness fer earl gray, as I recall.”

            Bilbo hesitated, his mind whirring with contradictions. He didn’t want anyone looking at it, judging it or telling him to change the story he wanted to tell. That didn’t change the fact that he wanted it to be the very best it could be, if only for himself and for his nephew, and perhaps some editing could help with that. Of course that wasn’t to say he couldn’t do his own damn editing; he wasn’t some uneducated buffoon and he’d more than thirty years of bookworm experience under his belt – he knew quite well what a good novel looked like.

            He _did_ have a fondness for earl gray. How had Bofur noticed?

            “…Not a word, as I said. You must maintain utter secrecy, or the d-deal’s off.” He pulled back, aimed a hard look into Bofur’s eyes. “Is that clear?”

            Unless he was much mistaken, the older man was having quite the time concealing a whoop of triumph as they stared at each other. Green gaze all a-gleaming, he simply held a hand out until Bilbo hesitantly shook it.

            “Done.” He gave Bilbo’s hand a squeeze, winked at him. “Whenever that first chapter’s ready, I’m at yer service.” He tipped an imaginary hat at him in salute, and without another word went to assist his brother with a fresh batch of customers.

            Bilbo sat staring after him a moment, though his eyes were rather unfocused. Mentally shaking himself, he re-opened his draft. As his fingers began their clacking ballet over the keyboard, he hoped to whoever might be listening that he hadn’t just made a terrible mistake. He did not want to surrender his motivation for coming to the homey little café, much less his chances of free tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic is going to end up being waaay longer/more intricate than I originally intended - suffice to say a perfectly innocent brainstorming session got away from me and before long was gallivanting into the sunset, cackling madly, whilst I clung desperately to the reins :D
> 
> So if you've subscribed, I hope you don't mind being in for the long haul and that you'll enjoy the story I have planned for y'all :) If you're just passing through, I hope you like whatever bits you choose to read. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> SA


	4. Chapter 4

_the Espresso is my Savior, I shall not want_   
_It causeth me to rise up from soft bed-clothes_   
_It leadeth me to ingest the steaming waters; it restoreth my soul_   
_It leads me in paths of alertness for its Namesake_   
_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Sleep-Deprivation, I fear no evil_   
_for thou art with me. Thy caffeine and thy sugar, they comfort me_   
_Thou anointest my drink with creamer; my cup runneth over_   
_Surely goodness of flavor shall follow me all the days of my life_   
_and I will dwell in the throes of Espresso forever_

Bilbo read over the thing once, twice. A third time to see if it had actually happened. Glance at the clock – was it really three-thirty a.m.? Back to the scrap of paper under his cramping hand. Found himself suddenly suppressing a horde of giggles trying valiantly to stampede forth from his throat.

            He really, _really_ should be sleeping right now. He had to be at work in five and a half hours, awake and (moderately) functioning in three to get Frodo up and ready for school. He should know better. He was too old for this.

            The storyteller in him, that excited being that was childlike in its energy as well as its tendency to chat his bloody ear off at the most inconvenient of times, said ‘buggerall’ to such claims and insisted that this was all to the good – after all, he was making incredible progress. What was a little sleep lost in the face of creating worlds?

            The exhausted giggling stopped as abruptly as it had started, replaced by a heartfelt groan as Bilbo removed his glasses and scrubbed both hands over his face. His eyes felt like they would start bleeding any minute now, and his head was one solid ache of pent-up pressure from staring at his laptop for too long without a break. It was how he’d come to be in the present moment; some oddness had possessed him as he’d set the computer aside to continue writing anyway – nothing concerning his story, just a bit of stream-of-consciousness really – and out of nowhere this ridiculous sacrilege had come spilling out of him. He really didn’t know what to make of it, besides the obvious message of _god I need to sleep_. At least it was witty in and of itself, although he found himself wondering how this thing might look in the daylight once he’d rested properly.

            It was all Ori’s fault, he decided as he shut his computer down for the night (he refused to acknowledge that it was morning; to his mind it wasn’t proper morning until he’d gone to bed and woken up again). When he’d been in At Your Service over the weekend he’d seen the lad with a notebook not dissimilar to his own with him at the register, and after a few questions he’d discovered that the teen was undertaking some newfangled thing called ‘NaNoWriMo’: he, and plenty others apparently, were attempting to write out a novel’s worth of words in the space of but a month. He’d of course encouraged the boy in a polite-nothings kind of way as he’d left to go to his table; Ori had seemed so utterly excited by the prospect. And indeed, some ninety minutes later a group of four or five other teens had come in, Ori had taken his lunch break and they’d spent the next forty minutes in companionable silence and all hunched over laptops.

            He’d observed them in what he imagined was a nonchalant kind of manner, finding himself at once a bit taken aback by it all and yet inspired in a way as well. As they’d left he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to check his calendar, and felt the strangest pang as he’d realized the month was near to half-over already. Then he’d spent the next several minutes lecturing himself on how he wasn’t getting any younger and that trying to catch up so late in the game would not be in any way beneficial to his overall health. Besides, he worked full-time and had a seven-year-old to raise. It simply wasn’t feasible for him to be able to catch up, after all thirty-six year-old men such as himself did not pull constant all-nighters in the name of literature. It was simply not done.

            And on that note, he was going to bed. For real this time. No setting the computer on his bedside table ‘in case I get some brilliant idea in the small hours of the night’.

            “It already _is_ the small hours,” he reminded himself as he dragged tired feet towards his bedroom. “You’ve done enough for one blasted night.” He all but fell into his bed, pyjamas thankfully already on, and though he just couldn’t seem to get comfortable he was asleep in seconds.

            Of course, as is often the case in such tales, this meant that when his alarm began its insistent shrieking his bed felt rather like being cocooned in slippers fit for the deity(ies) of one’s choosing. As he began his half-asleep, flail-and-curse combo to turn the wretched thing off, he found it suddenly silent without his having to touch it and a hand gently shaking him.

            “Frodo’s ill, m’love.” Belladonna was standing over him, looking exhausted. “Your father’s already gone to work – didn’t even give me a kiss goodbye, the scoundrel – and Frodo told me you couldn’t hear him enough to wake up so he came to me.” She looked a bit offended at being her grandson’s second choice for comfort, but gratified all the same that she got to fuss over him a bit. “I’ve already called the school and let them know he won’t be in today, and I told your father to get you the day off as well.”

            It was too early for this. It was too early to _move._

            “Bilbo? Have you heard a word I’ve said, young man?” Frowning a bit, she pushed a little less gently at her son’s shoulder. “Bilbo Baggins, you get out of that bed this instant. Or else I shall start singing ‘Rise and Shine’ at the top of my voice, and there will be no coffee for you in the kitchen, nor any bacon with your eggs.”

            A bare five minutes later saw Bilbo sitting fully dressed in the kitchen with a wan nephew and a quietly smirking mother as his company.

            “Now I shan’t stay long as I’ve my own job to tend to, maps don’t make themselves as you well know, so you lads shall have the place to yourselves until this afternoon.” She unconcernedly heaped a fresh pile of bacon on the plate next to the stove and pulled two pieces of dry toast from the toaster and set them before her grandson, who merely wrinkled his nose and let out a theatrical groan.

            “Can’t I at _least_ have some jelly on, pretty please Nana? Or butter?”

            “It won’t do that flippy tummy of yours any good, darling.” She bent to peck a kiss to Frodo’s forehead. “Nana’ll make you some tea to go with that toast, and you’ll have gobbled it up before you know it.”

            “Yeah _right_ ,” he muttered, but wisely kept the words under his breath. Bilbo might have sent him a stern look, if he weren’t otherwise preoccupied with keeping his eyes open to begin with.

            “And as for you, here’s some bacon nice and fresh for getting up like a good boy.” Smiling indulgently at her son, she bestowed a smooch to his head as well. “Why, just look at the pair of you. Droopy-eyed and sour-faced as though you’ve been sucking on a bagful of lemons! I do hope you’ll both be feeling better when I get home.”

            She left not long after, with a cheery wave and a ‘make sure he drinks that tea, Bilbo’ before the front door had closed with a decisive snap.

            “Please don’t make me drink it,” Frodo begged as soon as she’d gone.

            “Mmf.” Yawning expansively, Bilbo simply took the cup and downed it in one go. Felt his mouth crinkle in disgust. “Good grief, must she always brew it to death? And no sugar to speak of!”

            “Today sucks! I hate being sick. No one lets you do anything fun.”

            “I’m afraid that’s the truth of it, lad.” Sharing in his nephew’s glum outlook, he reached over and ruffled his smooth black curls. And was suddenly struck by the memory of Bofur doing the same to Ori as he’d so eagerly asked to go on his break once his friends had shown up at the café.

            Suddenly smiling, fatigue sufficiently suppressed for the moment, he stood and carefully hoisted his nephew into his arms.

            “Let’s go and get you dressed, Frodo. We’re going on an adventure.”

 

 

In the end Frodo had agreed despite his half-asleep crankiness, on the sole proviso that they went on their adventure dressed as the fiercest pirates in all the land. In between bouts of coughing and complaining about his stomach, his nephew had otherwise happily told Bilbo they could pretend to have scurvy, in case anyone asked.

            “We’ve got scurvy, but we can’t turn back now matey.” He’d stood solemnly looking off into the not-so-far distance (the effect slightly ruined by the fact that he was squirming rather a lot as Bilbo helped him with his bandanna). “We’ve gotta find that treasure!”

            “Arr,” Bilbo had agreed, quietly thinking to himself just where they might find such ‘treasure’. He hoped Frodo would like it. “That we do, Captain.”

            “Have you the map? Pretend you have,” he whispered. “Only ’s gotta be invisible ’cause I haven’t drawn it yet.”

            Nodding secretively, Bilbo straightened and touched a hand to the left-breast pocket of his overcoat. “Never you fear. We’ll find our way straight and true.”

            “Awesome.” He smiled up at his uncle. “I should get sick more often.”

            Though he knew he shouldn’t laugh, much less agree, Bilbo found it quite the challenge to not give in to either impulse. “Now Frodo, scurvy’s no laughing matter! If we’re to succeed in this voyage we must get you back to fighting pirate fit. Go and get your boots now, then we’ll be off.”

            As the child scampered merrily away, pale as ever, Bilbo carefully secured his eye-patch underneath his spectacles and straightened his pantaloons. He wasn’t quite dressed to the nines as Frodo was, but that was alright with him. Today was all about his nephew, and making him feel better. If dressing up and playing pretend sped that process along, Bilbo was more than happy to indulge.

            Besides, he found participating in the games his nephew’s wondrous imagination could cook up was intensely liberating. He rather liked being completely silly and having no regard for propriety for a few hours.

            “Are you ready, First Mate Uncle? Our ship sails with th’ morning tide!”

            “Aye, indeed it does. You’d better come and inspect the ship, Captain, to be sure she’s all in good order.” Slipping a scrap of torn paper into his pocket, he took Frodo’s hand and let himself be towed to his car. He hoped Bofur wouldn’t mind the sudden appearance of marauding pirates in his quiet little café.


	5. Chapter 5

“Oh brother mine, your favorite customer’s here with a tiny pirate in tow.”

            While Bilbo couldn’t hear what exactly it was that Bombur had said to Bofur, he thought he might be able to guess given the way Bofur flushed up a bit as he saw them slip through the door. What he had not expected, however, was for the man to simply tip his hat in greeting before turning abruptly on his heel and striding swiftly into the back room.

            “Frodo, why don’t you go and find us a table? Then perhaps you could draw us a proper treasure map, yes?”

            “It’s _Captain,_ Uncle.” At said uncle’s look, he quickly amended, “But a fine idea that is, matey.”

            Keeping an eye on the boy as he scurried away, Bilbo felt his thoughts stray towards the back room that Bofur had so conveniently disappeared into. Once his nephew was seated and meticulously sorting the crayons by color, he let his gaze wander as his thoughts did. What on earth was so wrong that he did not immediately greet Bilbo by name, as well as with some snarky and/or overly flirtatious comment?

            _Wait – what do you mean, ‘flirtatious’? Surely he doesn’t –_

            “You have a habit of spacing out, don’tcha?”

            “What?”

            “That’s twice now I’ve seen you slack-jawed and blank-eyed at the register," Bombur said. "What can I get for you and Baby Blackbeard?”

            “That’s _Captain_ Baby Blackbeard to _you_.” Frodo had reappeared at Bilbo’s side and was tugging at his shirt. “I can’t get the wrapping off’f the black crayon,” he complained. “It’s not even sharp and my crayon box doesn’t even have a sharpener in.”

            “Frodo, remember your manners. Now go back to the table and wait patiently. I’ll be there in just a minute.”

            “But I gotta use black for the X that marks the Spot. It’s _important._ ”

            “Your map’s not going anywhere and we’ve got the whole day ahead of us. Go wait for me.” Frodo sighed, rolled his one visible eye and slouched away muttering words like “mutiny” and “bilge rat” under his breath.

            “I do apologize for my nephew, he’s not usually –”

            “Oh my God, Bofur’s going to love that kid.”

            “Who’s goin’ t’love what now?” The man had reappeared, looking a mite fresher than he had a few minutes previously. “’Ello Mister Baggins, how nice t’see you again.”

            “Oh please, none of that stiffness; lord knows I get enough of that at work.” Bilbo wasn’t fooled for one moment by his cheeky smile and casual stance; his eyes were clouded over with the same worry and hurt that had been present when last they’d spoken. He, however, was already in full soothe-all-aches mode on account of his nephew, and besides he found that he was beginning to rather like this entirely singular man. “Call me Bilbo.”

            Bofur’s eyes cleared, and he stood a little straighter. “Nice patch y’got there, luv. Whose, ahem, booty are y’after?”

             Ah, there was the Bofur he knew. “That remains to be seen,” he replied with utmost dignity, despite having suddenly pink cheeks. “My captain is still in the process of poring over his maps. Speaking of which, he’s come down with the worst case of scurvy (it’s just a stomachache and scratchy throat, nothing to fret about) I’ve seen in all my sea-faring days. Might you have some remedy or other?”

            Bofur’s lips bowed and his eyes crinkled. “Aw, is that right? Poor laddie.”

            “Shh, if you don’t refer to him as ‘captain’ he’ll become quite cross.”

            “Oh don’t ye worry, sunshine. Leave it t’me. Oh Captain, my Captain!” he called out.

            Frodo turned at once to look, head cocking guardedly to the side.

            “I hear from yer shipmate here that ye’re battlin’ some scurvy that’d all but kill a lesser man. Would ye perhaps like t’know of my magic cure?”

            Brightening, the boy scooted off of his stump and approached the group, hand resting easily on the pommel of his cardboard-and-duct-tape sword. “Be you friend or foe?”

            “Sure and that’s fer you to decide,” was his cryptic reply, as Bilbo hoisted his nephew onto his hip so that he and Bofur would be eye to eye. “What says yer shipmate?”

            Frodo looked to Bilbo, and Bilbo nodded. “It’s alright, lad. He’s not a stranger to me and friendly enough.”

            “What’s your cure? Is it really real magic?”

            “Sure as the sunrise.”

            “What’s in it?” The question came from two mouths, though for entirely different reasons.

            “Not to worry, Bilbo. Mum used t’do it fer us lot when we were younger than yer boy here.” Addressing Frodo, he leaned in to whisper. “It’s the tastiest, warmest cup of hot chocky ye could want, with a dash of orange juice and just th’ barest squeeze o’ lime. Many a fine buccaneer such as yerself has been saved from Davy Jones’ Locker by such a brew as mine.”

            Eyes wide, Frodo turned to his uncle. “Can I please? Pretty please with extra cherries?”

            “It sounds harmless enough. Go and wait for me at the table, please.”

            “Okay!” The promise of chocolate seemed to have mellowed his impatience considerably, as he skipped happily back to his seat.

            “The citrus’ll give ’im the calcium his wee system needs to get settled, and the chocolate’s got a fair bit o’ antioxidants in to soothe ’is throat. And what’ll you be havin’?” Bofur looked entirely too smug again.

            “I’ll take anything with more than two shots of espresso in it, if you would, and some answers that you failed to give me when last I was here.”

            Though he’s spoken the words in what he’d thought was a lightly teasing way, he regretted them almost immediately: Bofur’s face fell as Bombur rung the pair of them up.

            “At your service and all the rest; have a seat and we’ll get your order to you directly.” All business, Bombur’s gaze was suddenly cool as Bilbo hesitated a moment by the register in confusion, looking concernedly at Bofur. He then seemed to think better of it, as he kept his mouth shut as he moved to join his nephew.

            “Bombur, tha’ really wasn’t necessary.”

            “He’s not family. He don’t need to know.”

            “But he is a customer an’ we should treat him as such. It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. Honest.”

            “As I’ve said before – you truly are a terrible liar.”

            Bofur bit back a sigh as he felt his resolve start to shudder under the weight of the stress he’d so carefully kept at bay for the last eight days. “Please, Bombur, let me handle it. Or don’t ye think I can’t hold me own against our curious writer friend?”

            Ears straining, Bilbo was a bit irritated to discover he could hear next to nothing of the whispered discourse taking place at the counter. No matter, he could always corner Bofur later when he and Bombur weren’t sharing a shift. He shifted his attention back to Frodo, who had his little tongue between his teeth as he painstakingly sketched the outline of a decidedly lumpy island.

            “Scurvy-be-Gone and Zombie Blues for Bilbo.”

            Bilbo made his way to the pick-up counter, feeling rather apprehensive and more than a little ashamed of his behavior.

            “I’m terribly sorry about that; I never meant to upset you.”

            Bofur hastened to shrug with forced casualness. “Think nothin’ of it.”

            “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.” The words were out before he could stop them. “Ah, _around_ me, I mean. You don’t have to pretend around me.” Bofur had gone still, and a hard frown was trying to fight its way onto his usually soft features. “You _are_ allowed to have off days. Everybody has them.”

            “I work in a coffee shop. I can’t afford t’have ‘off days’.”

            “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

            “Drop it, please.” Shooting a nervous glance at his brother, Bofur lowered his voice. “I canna talk about this.”

            “Won’t you join us then?” Bilbo did not know exactly what it was that was possessing him to be so forward, or why exactly he felt such an urge to bring that cheerfully mischievous energy back to the man opposite him. He didn’t know why seeing Bofur smile again and mean it should seem so important in this particular moment.

            He only knew that it mattered, and so did his best to accomplish such a task.

            “Just for a moment, if you’re busy. Wouldn’t want to take up every minute of your shift, now would we? Just the better part of it.” _Tell me what’s wrong. Let me make it better._ He smiled, and hoped he looked encouraging.

            Bofur, for his part, fought back a reluctant quirk coming to tug at the downward curve of his lips. “Well aren’t ye playful as a pup this morning?”

            “Can’t be stuffy and proper all the livelong day. Hence the pirate charade with my nephew.” Picking up the drinks, he raised them in salute and made his way back to their table. Started counting under his breath.

            However, contrary to most narrative laws of the universe, Bofur did _not_ suddenly rush to his side inside of fifteen seconds to clutch tearfully at him and confess all the hurts he’d ever had (Bilbo had read many books in his time that employed just such a device, and so had come to expect certain unrealistic things from life). He did not even come to him inside of fifteen _minutes_. Indeed, Frodo’s chocolate was nearly all drunk and his map almost finished before the braid-bearing barista came to tentatively join their table.

            “ ’s quite the treasure map y’have there.” May as well start on familiar ground; Bofur had always got on well with children. “What sorts of treasure are ye after?”

            “The kind that pirates fight awesome battles over!” Frodo seemed utterly unfazed by Bofur’s sudden appearance at his side. “We’re lookin’ for the lost treasure of Captain Parrothead,” he began, and proceeded to happily talk Bofur’s ear off with all the details of the poor bird-brained pirate that had so foolishly hidden his treasure under a pile of sand and feathers atop a cursed willow tree in the middle of the Canary Islands.

            Bilbo listened with half an ear, well used to Frodo’s tendency to tell lengthy and nigh-incomprehensible stories about anything that had snagged his interest for more than a day or two. Instead he found himself studying the man opposite him.

            Again it was really only Bofur’s face that gave him away, as his body language conveyed nothing but relaxed interest in Frodo’s ramblings. There were still circles under his eyes, the usually clear green depths now glazed over and bearing marks of fatigue around them. His mouth was set rather firmly where Bilbo was used to it being in a permanently lopsided, mobile grin. There was a muscle jumping in his jaw every now and again and his forehead was rife with worry-lines.

            Sneaking a surreptitious glance at the register, Bilbo saw Bombur signing animatedly to Bifur, who was working at the espresso machine with practiced ease as he listened. As he finished crafting the current order he cocked his head in the direction of their table (Bilbo hastened to look away), then signed something that had Bombur nodding in agreement. Neither of them looked at all pleased with the situation.

            “Don’t mind them.” The words were spoken almost too quietly for Bilbo to notice, had his head coming up to meet Bofur’s eyes. “They worry for me, as family will, but I’m truly alright. It’s nothin’ I can’t handle.”

            “And yet I find it hard to believe that what you’ve just said is entirely true.” Deciding that sternness would get him nowhere fast, Bilbo tried a different tactic. “What if I told you it was me worrying for – worrying about you instead?”

            Something flickered in Bofur’s expression, but was gone again in a flash. “Likely I’d say the same.”

            “The same half-truth, you mean.”

            “Ye can call it what ye like.” There was a different quietness to his tone now – a sort of subtle steel, swaddled in velvet. Bilbo had touched a nerve, and Bofur’s defenses had come to the forefront. “I’m a grown man an’ I can handle me own problems.”

            “What did you say this drink was called?” Bilbo took a hearty gulp from his cup, felt his eyes all but bug out of his skull as three shots of espresso and what tasted like a half-pound of sugar hit his system.

            “Zombie Blues.” Bofur looked almost pathetically grateful at the change of subject. “One of Bifur’s specialties, for them as need a boost that’ll keep ’em boosted.”

            “Indeed.” Trying not to sputter, Bilbo breathed deeply and sipped this time. The flavor was dark, rich as well as teeth-meltingly sweet, and it had a hell of an attitude. “I do believe this may keep me awake until far too late once again, and then the whole process shall start all over again.”

            “Oh, were ye up late last night?” A familiar sauciness crept into his voice. “Doin’ what, if I might ask?”

            “I bet he was writing. ’s all he _ever_ does these days.” Frodo was carefully coloring a comically large willow tree over the X that marked the Spot. “I woke up in the middle of the night and went to get some water, and the light was on in his office, and he was giggling, and he only ever giggles when he’s writing.”

            “Is that so? Were ye workin’ on that book of yers then?”

            “I hope so, ’cause he promised he’d read it to me when it’s done.” Frodo leaned forward, his eyes shining. “It’s got a _dragon_ in it!”

            “So I’ve been told. I’m to edit the thing fer yer uncle, if he lets me.” Bofur looked towards the now-silent Bilbo, a guarded hope on his face. “I’m waitin’ on the first chapter, though.”

            “Are you finished with your scurvy-cure, Frodo?” At the boy’s nod, Bilbo gestured towards the counter at the front of the store. “Go and give your cup to either of the nice men over there, alright?” As he toddled off, he turned to the other and whispered, “I’m not sure if you remember, but you told me you’d tell me what was wrong if I told you the contents of my story. I held up my end, and while I can’t make you do anything I’d appreciate if you at least hinted as to what’s troubling you.

            “You needn’t keep everything inside,” he added gently when Bofur hesitated. “No one ever gets by in this life entirely by their own power, Bofur. Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

            Hearing his name on Bilbo’s lips had Bofur's gaze sharpening, and then he glanced around as though he was afraid of being overheard. Seeing Frodo ambling back their way, firing an imaginary flintlock pistol, he locked his gaze on Bilbo’s shoulder.

            “Think of the Dwarves in yer storybook, and how they’re tryin’ to reclaim their homeland,” he murmured. Rising to his feet as Frodo plopped back onto his seat, he touched his cap. “I should be gettin’ back. Hope t’be readin’ that first chapter soon, should ye still be willing.”

            Bilbo may have spent the rest of their hour and a half in the café stealing glances at Bofur as he went about his work, but by the time he was bundling his nephew back into his coat and scarf he found he’d still no idea as to what Bofur’s entirely cryptic reply could have meant. The man had been resolutely ignoring him, and he’d not been able to successfully eavesdrop on any of the conversation he’d shared with his brother and cousin.

            Almost more troubling was this newfound urge to make Bofur happy, coupled with the rather belated realization that the man was regularly and actively flirting with him, and quite possibly had been doing so ever since he’d first set foot inside the man’s homey little shop. It had certainly been quite a long time since Bilbo had encountered any attention of that particular variety.

            And yet…he found it rather exciting, in an oddly calming way. Bofur may not have been himself this past week but he still found that whenever the two of them spoke his stresses of the day all melted like snow in springtime. Beyond plot and sub-plot and character arcs and all manner of writer-issues that were occupying his brain of late, he found that this issue was the most difficult to puzzle through – especially when he added in the incontrovertible fact that he had, if unconsciously, begun to flirt back.

            He hoped (as he sat down to write that night), that while he may be too old for all-night writing that he was still young enough for flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer-than-usual lapse between updates; I was without my computer this past weekend. And while I will have it with me from here on out, my schedule is about to get a good deal busier and as such updates will probably be no more than twice a week.
> 
> Thanks for understanding (I hope), and thanks for reading (I hope harder) :P
> 
> SA


	6. Chapter 6

Bilbo made sure no-one else was within a twenty-foot radius of the copy room before slipping inside and shutting the door, fighting the urge to lock and barricade it. Breathing deeply, he quickly went about connecting his laptop to the machine lurking in the corner.

            Really, there was no good reason for his subterfuge. He’d seen his fellow employees using the copier for non-work-related purposes many a time, and he certainly wasn’t printing anything nefarious or unethical or racy. But he had to do this particular printing here, despite having a perfectly capable printer at home – he didn’t need his parents questioning just what he was up to, and even more importantly he didn’t need Frodo seeing any piece of this until it was the best story Bilbo could make it.

            And really, it was thinking of his nephew that had led him to be here. He wanted to give his boy a damn good read, and Bofur had so kindly offered to edit for him, free of charge. And while Bilbo was in no way financially strapped, he still much preferred to not shell out thousands of dollars to have his project professionally edited by some dispassionate, faceless person whom he didn’t know. With Bofur he at least knew the man would make the effort to be kind about it, and had promised free tea for every chapter Bilbo surrendered to him for the chopping block – _for editing. You’ll get a cuppa for every chapter you give to him for editing. Stop all this ridiculous drama._

Bilbo idly tapped his fingers against the copier as it whirred, churning out the first chapter. Once the twenty-four pages had come to a rest, he’d carefully placed the stack into the slot at the top, set the machine to print double-sided and pushed Start. About a minute later he had two copies all readied: one for him to be used as a reference, and one for Bofur to read over and mark up. As he left the copy room with his work carefully sealed inside separate manila envelopes, he found himself hoping the man wouldn’t use a red pen to edit. He’d always hated that in school, often because it was used to tell him his work was ‘too lyrical’ or some such thing.

            But it would make him feel inordinately foolish to request such a little thing, and so he would refrain. Bofur was already doing him a great service; Bilbo had no right to be so picky. Especially since the man was already worried, though about what Bilbo hadn’t the faintest idea. He’d read through the five chapters he already had again and again, looking for clues after Bofur had mentioned his plight was similar to that of the Dwarves, but had come up dry every time. He just didn’t see how such a perilous journey could at all relate to whatever it was the man was going through.

            He really did hope it was nothing too serious.

            He made it back to his desk without incident, stared hard at the envelope with Bofur’s name on it. He was really doing this. He was letting somebody else in. Granted he’d methodically scanned through the thing more times than he could count for two hours the previous night, frantically searching out spelling or grammatical errors, changing a word or two, taking some away and adding others, and wishing fervently that Bofur would find it as interesting as he’d seemed to think it. But for all that he still felt his gut twisting with apprehension. This wasn’t just for him anymore.

            _Just get it over with. What’s the worst that could happen?_

            Roughly shoving that line of questioning away before he let himself answer it (and thereby begin catastrophizing and working himself up for nothing), Bilbo carefully ripped a blank page from his notebook and set his pen to it.

            _Bofur –_

_Here is chapter one. I hope you like it and all I ask is that you keep this from prying eyes that are not your own as we discussed. I also would request  that your criticisms be as constructive as possible, lest I fall into despair and become too discouraged to do more. I shall be in perhaps later in the week to collect the first of my complimentary drinks._

He read the thing over, hoping the man would know he was merely jesting in regards to editing-related despair. Overall the note sounded a bit stuffy to him, but he’d said what he’d wanted to say. Nevertheless, nothing wrong with softening the note a bit. He was, after all, entrusting a piece of his soul to Bofur. Best to keep him happy so he would treat it gently.

            _I hope this chapter finds you better than you have been. And if not, may it raise your spirits a little._

_– Bilbo_

            Satisfied, he secured the note to the first page of the chapter with a paper clip and set the thing aside until he could deliver it at lunchtime. Reluctantly left his desk to load up his and his father’s supply truck for the day’s work – they were going to go survey their client’s property and possibly start working on the two-level shrubbery garden they had been commissioned for. What joy.

 

 

He wasn’t able to change out of his overalls and boots when the time came for him to drop the chapter at the café – their work was going slower than he’d anticipated and Bungo was insisting that they finish this initial work today. So focused was he that he insisted on working through their scheduled lunch break, simply waving Bilbo away when he’d mentioned food. When Bilbo had, in a rather annoyed way, asked if he wanted anything Bungo had hardly seemed to hear him but for his muttering along the lines of ‘no pain, no gain’ as he set to work rolling out another long line of sod-grass. So Bilbo went grumbling off to their truck, hastily mopping sweat and gardening dirt from his face with the handkerchief that almost never left his pocket.

            The interior of At Your Service was decidedly empty, but surely that was a normal thing for a Tuesday afternoon. Bofur stood alone behind the counter whilst Ori had his head on his arms at a nearby table, snoring softly.

            Bofur seemed to not have heard him enter, as he was chuckling over a piece of torn paper in his hands. Bilbo stopped short a moment, feeling almost like he was intruding on some private moment – the man’s body was relaxed, his eyes soft, and a different kind of smile entirely playing about his lips. His eyes flicked back up to the top, read it over again. Bilbo felt something warm and not entirely quiet stir in his gut.

            Shaking his head, Bofur carefully folded the paper and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. He looked up then, and Bilbo suddenly felt the warmth in him flare as the other started at his presence, then raked his eyes unapologetically up and down his body. Remembering his attire, Bilbo shifted uncomfortably.

            “Sure and I never thought I’d see the day when ye’d come in here in anythin’ but a button-up an’ loafers.” When Bilbo had no reply, he came out from behind the counter and sauntered towards him. He was a good four inches taller than Bilbo and fairly wiry, though with unmistakable muscle underneath. Bilbo, who had a bit of a paunch starting in his belly, suddenly felt self-conscious.  

            “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

            “I can’t stay,” he blurted. “I’ve only about eight or ten minutes and then I need to be getting back to work; if I stay any longer my father won’t be pleased with me.” Despite the truth in his words, now that he was actually here Bilbo could all but feel his fingers clench protectively around the envelope he held at his side. “Where’s your brother?”

            “Supply run. We’re runnin’ a bit low on milk.” Bofur cocked his head to the side, eyes fixed on the yellow envelope. Lowered his voice a notch or two. “What have ye there?”

            “Ah…it’s yours. For you, I mean.” Goodness, why was his tongue suddenly tripping over itself? “Book. First chapter of my book. You said you wanted to edit?”

            “Whatever have I done wrong, t’make ye still sound so uncertain?” Eyes gleaming now, looking happier than he had in days, Bofur leaned in and gently tugged the package from Bilbo’s hand. “I can’t wait t’read it.”

            “You m-may feel differently, once you’ve actually read it.”

            “Hey, no need for tha’ kind of talk.” He looked up to give Bilbo a stern look, but then his eyes shifted to his cheek. “Ye’ve some dirt.” He hesitated for a moment as Bilbo hastened to brush the stuff away, then licked his thumb and smoothed it over the other’s cheek.

            It really had been a long time since Bilbo had had this kind of attention on him. He told himself it was for that reason and that reason alone that his breath hitched at the wet press of Bofur’s thumb. And at Bofur having leaned in, no more than a breath away, to make sure he’d gotten all of it. And the darkened dilation of Bofur’s pupils.

            Stepping back, he brought his hand back to his cheek and cleared his throat.

            “I need to go.” Acting on impulse, mind whirring, he pulled a pen out of his pocket, grabbed a napkin from a nearby dispenser and scribbled something onto it. “Here’s my number, in case you’ve questions. About the chapter, I mean.”

            Bofur let him place it into his outstretched hand; he was for once oddly quiet and standing almost perfectly still. They stood like that for a moment that stretched on and on, until Bofur broke his gaze away to peer at the number on the napkin. Glanced back up, the smile he’d worn while reading back on his face.

            “I can’t wait t’read it,” he said again, and Bilbo couldn’t help but feel like the man meant something else entirely.

            “Well, I certainly hope you shan’t be disappointed.”

            “If it’s anythin’ like that wee poem of yers I don’t see how I could be.”

            Bilbo had already turned and was halfway to the door, wanting to process what had just happened, but Bofur’s words had him freezing in place.

            “Poem? What poem?”

            “That which fell out of yer pocket yesterday as ye were leavin’.” Turning, he saw the man pull the paper he’d been chuckling over earlier out of his pocket. “Lovely little thing, this. Had me cacklin’ like a goose when first I read it.”

            Bilbo flushed scarlet, at once embarrassed and pleased. “Well I, I, I should like to see what _you_ come up with at three in the morning and if it’s at all coherent.”

            Bofur put his free hand on his hip, and his eyes were sparkling. “I should like t’see th’ day when ye and I are enjoyin’ each other’s company at such an hour. At any rate, if I find meself awake so late I’ll let ye know of any results.” He nodded to the door, held up the envelope. “Ye should probably go, much as I’d love t’have ye stay and squirm whilst I have a look at this.”

            “You be careful with that,” Bilbo called out indignantly, fighting the urge to smile as Bofur turned to go back to the counter. “If there’s so much as a scratch on it I won’t let you look at a single word more.”

            “Don’t want t’be late fer work now. Go on.” Winking, Bofur gently set the envelope aside and waited for Bilbo to shut the door behind him. No sooner had he done so than he made sure Ori was still sleeping (poor laddie was in the middle of midterms), checked his watch (Bombur had been gone for all of twenty minutes, he had at least fifteen more), and carefully opened the envelope and slid the sheaf of papers out. He felt his face soften at Bilbo’s note, and he brushed his fingers over it before laying it aside and shifting his attention to story itself.

            So engrossed was he that he nearly didn’t have it hidden away by the time Bombur had returned with the milk. Indeed, he spent a good portion of the rest of the day wishing he could go back to reading. He wanted to know what happened next.

            Almost more than that he thought of Bilbo’s phone number now sitting oh so innocuously in his pocket. He very much hoped he’d have occasion to use it soon.


	7. Chapter 7

“No, I understand – yes, yes of course we can have that wall up by Monday, but you must understand –” Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to will the aching throb in his head away.

            “Yes, of _course_ it’s important, but we’re still waiting on supplies and with this rain it would be immensely difficult to have the cement set properly, and –” A particularly shrill cavalcade of creative admonishments had him holding the receiver away from his ear. “Madam, there’s simply not much we can do until the weather clears. I know the waiting must be hard for you, but it will continue to rain until the rain is done! It’s neither in my power nor in that of my employer to change the weather of the world.

            “We’ll be there Monday, yes. Have a good night.” Barely stifling a groan, Bilbo hung up on the client and scrubbed his hands over his face. The woman had called at the absolute last minute, and now he’d just wasted the first twenty minutes of his Friday evening listening to her complain about their lackluster service.

            At least his father didn’t have to hear that. Then Bilbo would have had to hear about it nonstop throughout the entire weekend and that was just not something he needed right now.

            “What was that about?”

            And then, there were times when the universe just wouldn’t cut him a break.

            Pushing wearily to his feet, he began piling papers and laptop into his bag. “Nothing to worry on, Father. Madam Proudfoot is simply anxious to have her garden started and is upset because of the weather, that’s all.”

            “What did you tell her?” Bungo was not looking at him directly, but instead seemed oddly preoccupied with the wall just behind him.

            “That we could have it up by Monday, if the weather cleared.” Unease skittered slowly down his spine. “That…that was the right thing to say, wasn’t it?”

            Bungo stayed quiet for far too long, and was swaying slightly. “Of course, m’boy. Nothing to be done about a little drizzle.”

            “Father, are you alright?”

            “Of course I’m bloody alright.”

            “You’re ill.” Concerned, Bilbo came forward and took Bungo’s arm. The man’s eyes had glazed over again, and his forehead bore a thin sheen of sweat. “Father, what’s happened?”

            Bungo shook him off, none too gently. “I told you, nothing. Where do you get such foolish ideas?”

            “You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? Skipped too many lunches as well, I’d wager.” Angry now, Bilbo began steering his father towards the parking garage. “Why on earth didn’t you say anything?”

            “You sound like your mother. Always fussing when there’s nothing to be fussed over.”

            Knowing that he’d next to no hope of getting his father to listen to him, Bilbo forced himself to keep his mouth shut as he drove the pair of them home. With any luck he would be able to escape dinner a little early, and go out for a drink or two. Settle his nerves.

            A sudden buzzing against his thigh had him jumping, glancing guiltily over at his father. But Bungo either hadn’t heard the noise or was ignoring him, and Bilbo wasn’t sure which would be worse. Heart tripping over itself, he tried to act unconcerned and unaffected as he carefully steered the car through the evening commute traffic.

            It had been three days since he’d left his first chapter in Bofur’s hands, and since then he hadn’t heard anything from him nor seen him either – he’d figured he should give Bofur some time and some space to work through the thing and edit it adequately. That wasn’t to say he’d _wanted_ to stay away; it had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to not stop by the café once he was done for the day, or find excuses to go there for lunch. He didn’t want Bofur to feel pressured into reading anything, especially if he didn’t end up liking it. And now his phone was buzzing, five quick bursts that indicated a text message.

            Perhaps he was texting to say he loved it, and wanted to gush over Bilbo’s genius. Perhaps he’d hated it, and wanted to tell Bilbo just how quickly it had bored him to tears. Worse than either of those scenarios would be Bofur being indifferent, saying “Ach, it was nothin’ special” when Bilbo inquired after his opinions. It wasn’t until he’d nearly run two red lights that Bilbo realized just how much he was worrying about Bofur’s potential feedback.

            And then there was the brief physical…something that had passed between them on Tuesday. Would whatever had driven Bofur to be so bold change if his opinion of Bilbo’s writing was unfavorable?

            “Uncle and Papa Bungo are home!” Frodo pelted out of the door as Bilbo stepped out, and tugged on his sleeve in earnest. “Nana made mushrooms and taters! It smells so good and I wanted to eat all of it but Nana said I had to wait ’till you got home and can we eat now, please?”

            “Give us a minute, lad. We’ll be in soon enough.” Gently disengaging his nephew, Bilbo waited until he’d gone inside again before turning to his father, who’d yet to get out of the car.

            “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or not?”

            “Did he say taters? Certainly could do with a plate or two of those.”

            “Bother and confusticate the bloody taters. How long have you been ill?” Crossing his arms over his chest, Bilbo felt his fingers start tapping insistently against his upper arm. “Don’t you try and deny it either; I know that look.”

            Bungo looked at him for a long moment, his jaw clenching and lips all ready to form some words or other…and then his usual mask of quiet distractedness slipped smoothly back into place. “I told you, you needn’t worry about it. And I might ask you the same question. What’s got you so in a twist that you’re closeting yourself away for hours at a time every damn day?”

            Bilbo’s blood ran cold as he fought to keep the shock from his face. Jumped as his phone began, again, to buzz insistently against his leg. Bungo’s eyes slid down to where it sat in his pocket, then came up again to arrow a knowing look into his son’s eyes.

            “You let me worry about my own business and I’ll let you worry about yours, eh?” He strode inside without a backward glance.

            Unable to move for a few seconds, Bilbo belatedly pulled his phone out of his pocket. He’d a text and a missed call, both from a number he did not recognize.

            _Chapter is read/edited. Have questions. –B_

_“’ello Bilbo, it’s Bofur. Listen, I’ve ’ad a look at this first chapter and there’s some questions I’ve got naggin’ about in me head, the least of which is ‘when can I see chapter two’. If ye want ye can swing by the shop tonight; we’re open till nine but fer you I could make a wee exception. I’ve a few suggestions, too. Give us a ring, would ye? ’ave a good one.”_

He was hitting the Return Call button before he knew what he was doing, and then Bofur was there, voice quiet above a bustling, noisy background.

            “Bilbo?”

            “Hello, I – how did you know it was me?”

            “Caller ID, sunshine.” Bilbo found himself picturing the man leaned against the end of the drinks counter, one hand in his jeans pocket and the other holding the phone to his ear, and his head cocked to the side with a small smile playing about his lips, and his weight on his left leg as he had a habit of doing.

            “Hey, ye there?”

            “Oh yes, sorry. Got distracted for just a moment, I’ve only just got home from work and that’s why I missed your call.”

            “No need t’sound so guilty. Yer callin’ back now, which I take t’mean that ye got my message and are just dyin’ t’know what I thought of yer writing.”

            “…has anyone ever told you that you’ve a habit of mind-reading?”

            His laugh was scratchy and distant through the phone, and had a bit of Bilbo’s headache draining away. “Now surely such a sensible lad as yerself doesn’t believe in such flights o’ fancy.”

            “Excuse you. I’d like to think I’m rather more than a lad at this stage of life.”

            “That ye are.” The words were spoken almost too quietly to be heard, but before Bilbo could ask him to repeat himself Bofur was speaking again. “I’m afraid I can’t stay on fer too long; the Friday rush is startin’ up and we need all hands on deck.”

            “Ah yes, of course. Didn’t mean to disturb, I shan’t keep you long and truth be told I need to be getting to dinner with my family. Can I – erm – can I call you later? To talk about things?”

            “Probably better to text, but sure. Y’let me know when yer free and we’ll have ourselves a nice chat about this book of yers.” Something had changed, and Bofur’s voice had gone soft but certainly not innocent. “Ye go enjoy yer dinner and I’ll talk t’you later, alright?”

            “Alright. Um.” His words were sticking in his throat. “Yes, I’ll talk to you later. Good night.”

            “G’night, sunshine.”

            Good thing it was already dark out, so Frodo couldn’t see his blush as he came out again.

            “Uncle Bilbo, it’s _dinner_ time – who’s on the phone?”

            Tearing his eyes away from the screen, he cleared his throat and hastily shoved the thing into his pocket. “Bofur. The nice man who you met in the coffee shop when you were home sick from school.”

            “Oh. Is he your friend now?”

            “I –” Stopping short as he let himself be dragged inside, Bilbo was suddenly at a loss for words. “Do you know, I had not really thought of it like that.”

            “So does that mean yes or no?”

            “I…I suppose it means yes.” He smiled a bit. “Yes, I do believe one could say we are friends.”

 

 

Bilbo: Dinner’s finally done. Can I call?  
Bofur: Missing me that much?  
Bilbo: Nonsense. Just curious as to your feedback.  
Bofur: Ooh, so defensive ;)  
Bilbo: I cannot fathom what you mean.  
Bofur: Now Bilbo, how am I to flirt with you if you’re so stubbornly oblivious?  
Bofur: Oh dear I didn’t mean to send that.  
Bilbo: No it’s…fine. May I call you or not?  
Bofur: Give me a minute. Crowded still.  
Bilbo: Texting when you’re busy at work? Dear me.

He did not receive a reply for a solid fifteen minutes, and after staring hopefully at his phone for five of said minutes he shrugged and went to change out of his work-clothes.

            “Where are you off to so late?”

            Feeling rather proud that he hardly jumped at all at his mother’s suspicion-laden tone, he simply kept his back to her as he searched through his wardrobe. “Just going for a drink or two, Mother.”

            “With whom?”

            “With myself, I should think.” Feeling his hackles raise, he wriggled his shoulders to ease the tension sneaking back into them.

            “Would you take your father with you? He has not been out in ages.”

            Hesitating, Bilbo lowered his hand from reaching for his favorite waistcoat and turned to face his mother. “I don’t think that’s advisable. Father’s ill.”

            “Nonsense, he would have told me.”

            “You think so?” Simmering heat that he’d so successfully banked was starting to spark angrily again. “Because he hasn’t been himself for days, weeks really, and looked near to a faint as we were leaving work today. When I asked him about it he told me, in no uncertain terms, to mind my own business.” Turning back to the wardrobe and deciding on a soft blue sweater instead, he tossed it on his bed next to the black jeans he’d selected. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

            Belladonna stood quite still, shocked to silence, before turning on her heel to stride quickly away. Grateful that Frodo was already set for the night (either in bed or having snuck out again to play with his vast Lego collection), he dressed himself, grabbed his coat, phone, keys and chapter draft and slipped quietly out to his car.

            Perhaps Bofur wouldn’t mind meeting up to discuss his writing in person. Despite his placating assertion to his mother that he’d be fine on his own, Bilbo knew himself far too well to believe such drivel. If he were left alone he’s start overthinking and therefore worrying himself into a frenzy over his father, and that was not what he needed tonight.

            Right on cue, his phone began to play the finale of _Le carnival des animaux_ by Camille Saint-Saëns (he had rather a deep love of classical music, and the mischievously lively melodies had seemed the perfect herald for Bofur), and he was carefully pulling over to the side of the street to answer.

            “Hello?”

            “First let me say I was a bit out of line with the comment about flirtin’, I didn’t mean t’make ye uncomfortable in any way, an’ –”

            “Whoa, slow down there.” Noticing his voice was still clipped from his frustration with his father, Bilbo made a keen effort to gentle his voice. “Didn’t I say it was fine?”

            Bofur was quiet for a moment, his unease practically a tangible entity in its own right. “I don’t want t’push ye away.”

            “You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you? It’s alright, my day has not been the best either.”

            “…more a rough evening than anythin’ else, but yeah ye could say that.”

            “Are you alright?” Concerned now and irritated about it, Bilbo covered the mouthpiece briefly so Bofur would not hear him sigh. “Bofur? We can do this later, if you’re tired or whatnot.”

            “Nah, best we do it now.”

            “Why don’t we meet up somewhere? I was thinking I’d like a drink anyway, and could do with the company.”

            “Ye sure? I don’t want ye t’have t’go out of yer way –”

            “Honestly, whatever’s gotten into you? You don’t usually tiptoe around me like this.” Struck by niggling inspiration, Bilbo made his voice teasing. “Don’t tell me there’s another author!”

            There was a moment of reluctant silence before he heard Bofur let out a muffled chortle. “How yer doubt wounds my heart. Where shall we meet?”

            “I was thinking of that new pub over on First. O’Neill’s, I believe it’s called.”

            “Sounds good t’me. And – and Bilbo?”

            Bilbo swallowed at the hopeful if uncertain tone of the other’s voice. “Yes?”

            “Thank you.” Bofur let out a long breath. “Just – thanks. I’ll see ye in about forty minutes.” The line went quiet, and Bilbo smiled in spite of himself. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be quite so morose after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book I have Bilbo writing in this fic is the novel _The Hobbit_ , otherwise known as _There and Back Again_. As such the book Bofur is editing is pure book!verse, ergo all the extra juicy bits added in for the movie won't be making an appearance in this story.
> 
> Also, I spent most of my time writing this chapter listening to "All the Same" by Sick Puppies, as I see that song as (kindof) illustrating the Bilbo-Bofur dynamic I'm creating here ~~call me crazy but I think it works~~

While the pub bore a remarkably similar décor to Bofur’s café, Bilbo found he did not care nearly so much for the atmosphere – he’d swung open the door to be hit in the face with almost criminally loud popular music. Were it not for Bofur sounding so relieved on the phone to be meeting somewhere outside of his shop, he just might have clapped his hands over his ears and gone right back outside again.

            Grumbling, Bilbo peered around the place then made a beeline for a table off in the corner, away from the too-loud speakers at the bar. He glanced around, fidgeting and shifting, his mood not improving when he noticed how much older he seemed to be in relation to ninety percent of the general clientele. Why, even the bartender barely looked old enough to be serving alcohol.

            Bofur did not appear to have arrived as yet; Bilbo silently thanked whoever was listening and hastened to straighten his sweater, check his hair in the mirrored walls by the pool table, push his glasses farther up his nose. He cleared his throat once or twice, nervously fiddled with the envelope he’d brought with him.

            And then the door was swinging open, and he was leaning forward with his heart pounding – and a group of twenty-somethings came through, laughing and staggering and waving heartily to the bartender. Huffing a bit, hurriedly sitting back and hoping no-one had noticed his eager watchfulness, Bilbo ducked his flushed cheeks and pretended to be utterly absorbed in the pages of writing before him.

            It was of course due to this teen-like self-consciousness that Bilbo missed Bofur’s entrance almost entirely.

            He pushed through the door all but silently, shoulders hunched instinctively against the unfamiliar environment. A hand came up to pull his slouch cap just a little farther down, and then was unceremoniously crammed back into a pocket. He stood near the door a moment or two, surveying the area whilst trying valiantly to remain unseen. His eyes moved too quickly in his apprehension, and so missed Bilbo the first time. A deep breath, then another, and he moved towards the bar with none of his usual balletic swagger.

            Bilbo had noticed him as he’d begun to move, having been unable to keep himself from looking up for another moment; any time the bell had tinkled merrily he’d nearly given himself minor whiplash. And now Bofur was here, and looking extraordinarily out of his element, but Bilbo couldn’t find it in himself to call him over (for to do so would be to call attention to himself for the whole bar to see, and he wasn’t having that). Instead, he did what Bofur himself was wont to do, and let his eyes wander.

            He was wearing his green tank-top again, though upon stepping inside he’d removed the denim jacket he’d been wearing over it. His jeans were the same pair Bilbo had always seen him in – dark blue, tight at the thighs but flared at the feet, and threadbare at the knees. His dark, dark hair was in its customary braid, dangling to his shoulder-blades, a few escaped strands framing his face rather nicely. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he studied both the bar and those crowded around it, and it wasn’t until Bilbo hissed at the insistent pressure that he realized he was mimicking the other’s gesture.

            Bofur squirmed, looked around the pub once again. Bilbo tentatively raised his arm to wave, but Bofur either didn’t see him or was waiting for Bilbo to come to him. Inwardly cursing, Bilbo pulled out his phone.

            _Back-right corner._

Jumping at the sudden burst of distorted guitars and uilleann pipes from his pocket, Bofur fumbled for his phone, frowned at the screen a moment before turning with a relieved if shy smile on his face.

            “Sorry luv; din’t see ye all the way back here.” Sliding easily into the seat opposite, he stuck out a hand.

            “What, no impromptu hug this time? I mean –” Smiling sheepishly, he took Bofur’s outstretched hand and shook it. “Ignore me. It’s been a long week.”

            “If a hug’s what ye’re after, I’d be happy to indulge ye.” Bofur looked exhausted, though a great deal of his tension had visibly drained from his body. “I’ve not had the easiest week meself either, and it’s often I’ve found a hug can take all tha’ badness away fer a moment or two.”

            “W-well, if it would make the both of us feel better, I don’t see why we shouldn’t.” Rising, needing to move before he stopped himself, Bilbo tried to mask the renewed thundering of his heart as Bofur looked curiously up at him for a moment before rising to face him.

            They opened their arms and planted their feet at the same moment, the synchronized movement causing one to chuckle and the other to huff indignantly before relenting and coming forward, eyes trying their damndest to skid away. Bofur was wearing a bemused grin, whereas Bilbo could feel his lips set in a determined line as his eyes went bright. He gave a halfhearted shrug, as though trying to dissuade an invisible fly from landing on him, before closing the last few inches between them.

            It was…well, suffice to say he’d been on the receiving as well as the giving end of more fulfilling hugs. Not to say that this one was bad, not in the least, but there was a measure of stiffness in it, of hesitancy that prevented it from being what Bilbo had been hoping for.

            “Yer trembling.” And so he was.

            “And you’re wound tighter than a spring.” The other shifted under the murmured observation.

            “Alright,” he breathed. “Then I want ye t’do something fer me.”

            “…what is it?”

            “Relax.” He stroked a hand down Bilbo’s spine and up again, until the smaller man exhaled and let himself melt into the gentle, insistent press of Bofur’s embrace. And suddenly their bodies were fitted much more truly to each other’s, Bilbo’s arms draped ’round Bofur’s neck and Bofur’s wound snug about Bilbo’s waist. He had to go onto the balls of his feet to comfortably fit his head onto Bofur’s shoulder, putting his lips a mere breath away from the other’s stubble-strewn neck, but he didn’t mind. He rather liked this position.

            “That’s it, sunshine. Let go. No, don’t let go of _me,_ ” Bofur chuckled, low and warm, and Bilbo felt it reverberate right through his lungs as the other’s arms were suddenly closer and just a bit tighter. “I’m not done huggin’ ye yet. Let go of yer troubles, is what I meant.”

            “Only if you d-do the same.” Bilbo tightened his own grip in response, and nearly sighed as he felt Bofur’s chest expand, flush against his own before retracting again as he exhaled.

            They stayed like that a moment longer, before Bilbo blinked rapidly and gently disengaged himself. Knew by the subtle burning in Bofur’s darkened eyes, echoed by the fire in his cheeks, that he was not the only one affected by the experience.

            “Yes. Well. Shall we…?”

            Bofur’s gaze followed the feeble wave of Bilbo’s hand to their identical envelopes on the table. “Is that what’s really on yer mind jus’ now?”

            “Not – not especially, no. You’re rather, ah…”

            “Captivatin’?”

            “I was going to say ‘distracting’.”

            A sly grin split across Bofur’s face. “Whatever can I do then, t’make ye focus?”

            “I’m getting a drink. Would you like anything?”

            The grin faltered. “I’d love a whiskey, but’m opening tomorrow. Gotta stay fresh.”

            “You work on the weekends?”

            “Usually, yeh. Why?”

            “There’s no need to get defensive.” Bilbo resumed his seat without going to the bar. “I was merely curious. Now then.” He paused, fingers skittering towards his envelope. “You said in your message that you had questions?”

            But Bofur was not looking at him.

            “Bofur? Are you with me? What happened to letting go of your troubles?”

            The other’s eyes snapped to his then, and the look in them had Bilbo unconsciously flinching. “What – what did I do?”

            A brief flicker, and then it was gone. “It’s not you. Not yer fault. Forget about it.”

            Resigning himself to the fact that they may not actually get any discussion done tonight (at least, none concerning his book like he’d originally hoped), Bilbo pushed his papers aside to hold Bofur’s gaze as levelly as he could. “How can I, when whatever it is has you so upset?”

            Bofur let loose a harsh, mirthless chuckle, the sound of it grating over Bilbo’s senses. “Believe me, it’s nothin’ new. I let it go and so should you.”

            “You said to think of the Dwarves in my story, when last I asked you about this.” Bilbo’s fingers brushed over the envelope that sat before the other, arrowed a questioning glance into Bofur’s eyes. “Now that you know just what it is they’re up against, what it is they’re facing, I’m wondering if that still holds true. What ‘homeland’, so to speak, are you trying to reclaim?”

            It was a daring move, and suddenly Bilbo could see his father before him again, telling him to mind his own business. Almost immediately the image of his mother followed after, ever prying but without finesse or tact. As he looked across the table that now seemed a good deal wider than it had bare moments previously, Bilbo resolved to make a mesh of the traits – he was going to find out what was wrong with his friend but would withhold judgment, and instead try to help him through it.

            “Are ye askin’ as an author, or as just yerself?”

            How had he known to ask that question? “Both.”

            “Then ye must not breathe a word of this to anybody.” There was a desperation in him now that Bilbo had not seen before nor expected, and the thread of fear in his voice was equally unsettling. “I’m keepin’ yer secrets about yer book, so I expect th’ same courtesy here.”

            “Of course.”

            “Shake on it?”

            “I could do you one better and hug on it.” Bilbo smiled encouragingly. “But I don’t want to draw attention to us, so we’ll stick to a handshake for now.”

            “I don’t know what t’make of ye, I really don’t.” Bofur released his hand. “Yer all closed off and jumpin’ at anybody so much as speakin’ t’you for the longest time, and now yer all forward and inquisitive.”

            “That’s not what we’re talking about just now.” Reddening, Bilbo cocked a brow at Bofur and kept quiet, drawing the silence out until the other couldn’t help but fill it in.

            “The shop’s not…we’re losin’ business.” The words were spoken barely above a whisper, as though he feared that by speaking them aloud it would make them all the truer. “We were doin’ fine, had been fine fer years but a coupla weeks ago things started flaggin’. I told the lads it was nothin’ to worry on, nothin’ we hadn’t seen before every now an’ again, but they wouldn’t have it.

            “It’s my family’s shop, y’see. ’s what we’ve always done, with a bit ’o this and a bit ’o that on th’ side. When me parents –” his hands twisted together, a muscle beginning to clench in his jaw, “Me an’ Bombur were orphaned pretty young. Bifur took us in, what with bein’ already grown and all. Taught us the trade after school an’ on the weekends, showed us ’round the family business. ’s what we’ve always done, and I’ve always been fine with it. It’s a life I can be, and am, proud of.”

            “Then why does it sadden you like this?” Bilbo’s hand had gone to cover Bofur’s without him realizing it, and he was leaning ever farther forward. “Surely it won’t – surely you’ll be fine, as you have been.”

            “Like I say – the lads don’t seem t’share my optimism.” He nodded towards the papers. “Kind of how some of th’ Dwarves don’t know if they’ll be able t’get their mountain back.”

            “Now Bofur, you can’t expect me to reveal the ending this early on. I don’t even know if you enjoyed the chapter, especially if it reminded you of your own troubles.”

            “Ye think I didn’t like it?”

            “I’m not a mind-reader, unlike some of us.”

            “An’ there ye go, bein’ all forward an’ flirty again.” Despite the grumbled words his eyes had cleared a little, and he seemed to be less tense. “I liked it alright; certainly I’m dyin’ t’know what happens next. Besides, yer Hobbit, Martin, is rather a delightfully quirky bloke thus far. An’ I like the wizard, and the lead Dwarf…what’s ’is name again?”

            “Richard.”

            “Yes tha’s it; Richard seems rather ridiculous the way he prattles on, but good at heart. And I loved the song ye had them all sing at the end there, about the dwarves and their life and the dragon what took it from them. Ye’ve a knack fer rhymes.”

            Bilbo sat still a long moment after that, suddenly faced with the Herculean task of not jumping up and down for sheer, relieved glee at Bofur’s words. _He likes it!_ He could have kissed him right then and there, for saying such kind things.

            “I…thank you.” Beaming now (though he felt a smidge guilty for being so happy when Bofur was having a hard time of things), he withdrew his hand to absentmindedly shuffle the pages before him. “Good. Yes, erm…do you have any other questions? Not concerning the ending, I mean?”

            “There’s a few points where I wondered about yer comma usage, but other than that nonsense when can I see chapter two?”

            “What? Comma usage?”

            “Don’t get offended, sunshine. Some of yer sentences seem a wee bit long is all. Nothin’ wrong with that, mind, but ye may want t’let more of the semicolon into yer life if ye keep that up. Or just rearrange yer commas a bit to make up fer the complicated sentence structure.”

            They spent the next several minutes comparing the two drafts, Bofur carefully pointing out each comment and marking of his (Bilbo became entirely less cross as he saw that Bofur had used black ink and not red) and Bilbo making a note of it on his own, or otherwise contesting or explaining his reasons behind a particular phrasing or some such thing.

            He discovered, in this brief editor-writer interaction, that Bofur was obviously not just the common coffee-shop employee he’d originally thought him to be. The man was obviously quite well-educated, and often spouted terms or grammar rules that even Bilbo had never heard of. Given his own love of impeccably grammatically correct things, Bilbo soon found himself suitably impressed by Bofur’s extensive knowledge.

            “Whatever good luck it was that landed me an English major for an editor, I’ll never know.” He smiled at the other and gave him a pat on the back (Bofur had scooted around the table to sit closer, so as to make their comparison of drafts that much easier).

            “English major?” Bofur gave him an odd look for a moment before bursting out laughing. “I never woulda made it through school if’n I’d been forced t’sit on me arse, analyzing so-called ‘classics’ every day. I majored in music, with a focus in composition.”

            “Did you now?”

            “Scout’s honor.”

            “Hm. It seems I have been deceived.”

            Bofur gave him a look of mock-pity. “Ye wouldna be the first. We musicians are tricky, clever folk.”

            “So I’m coming to know.” Glancing at his watch, he winced and angled it towards Bofur. “I should let you go.”

            Bofur’s eyes clouded a bit before nodding his acquiescence. “Aye, ye’ve the right of it. Much as I’d rather sit and chat for hours more, I need a good night’s sleep.”

            “To be perfectly frank, I do as well.” Reluctantly, Bilbo began to scoop loose papers into his envelope.

            “Oh! One las’ thing, before I forget.” Bofur flipped over to page nine, pointed to the paragraph at the very bottom. “This may jus’ be me, but I feel as somethings missin’ here. Where ye have the Dwarves cleanin’ up their dinner and Martin bein’ all worried they’ll hurt his crockery.”

            “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Is something about that unclear?”

            “No, nothin’ like that. It just seems t’me these Dwarves are a rather merry folk, and I – well, I was thinkin’ there could be another song there. Mayhaps t’do with all the awful things they _could_ do to his dishes, blunting the knives or some such offense, but then not actually do them. Just sing a little somethin’ while they’re cleanin’, that’s all.”

            Bilbo peered at the transition between paragraphs there, and in truth it was kind of abrupt. “I’ll see if I can whip something up.”

            “Oh, don’t change it too much on my account. I’m jus’ one person.”

            Bilbo’s eyes went bright again, and he laid a hand on Bofur’s arm. “You’re not ‘just’ anything, and I would not have asked for your opinion if I did not think it worth heeding.”

            Bofur stopped short a moment, eyebrows shot up in surprise.

            “I…thank you, Bilbo.” He smiled that shy smile again, and then reached out to tug Bilbo into his arms. And Bilbo wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a tremor in Bofur’s breathing as he held him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I substituted the actors' names for the characters in _The Hobbit_ so as to make the discussion of it work :P


	9. Chapter 9

Bofur carefully locked his bicycle to the rack out in front of the shop, whistling cheerily as he did so. It was nearly midnight, and he would have to be up at six to get the shop ready for opening at seven. But he seemed entirely unaffected by such a fact, as he all but floated up the stairs to his apartment above the café with a dreamy smile sitting happily upon his face.

            He opened the door carefully and quietly so as not to disturb Bifur, sound asleep on the fold-out couch in the front room. Their’s was a neat little one-bedroom; and no sooner had Bifur taken in his younger cousins nearly thirty years ago than he’d surrendered the bedroom to them and taken up half of the front room for his own possessions.

            Tiptoeing softly into the kitchen, he flicked on the light above the stove and pulled a banana from the fruit basket atop the fridge. Nodded to his brother who entered a few minutes after, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

            “You’re home late.”

            Bofur shrugged, continued munching. “I went out, as people are wont t’do.”

            “Mm. Whereabouts?”

            “Went fer a ride.”

            “For two hours?”

            “Is that so unusual from what I usually do with me time?”

            Bombur studied his older brother, arms crossed across his chest. “You don’t usually come back from a ride lookin’ so ridiculously happy.”

            Bofur rolled his eyes, the glow from Bilbo’s last embrace beginning to wane. “Has anyone ever told ye that ye’re too nosy for yer own good?”

            “I like to think it’s part of my charm.”

            Bofur snorted before tossing the peel into the trash bin. “Keep tellin’ yerself that.” The little blinking light that meant he’d a missed text greeted him as he pulled out his phone to set his alarm.

           

Bilbo: Did you get home alright?

“You’re blushing, brother. Either you’re suddenly out of breath for no reason, or you just got in from a hot date.”

            “It’s foolish y’are t’think so.” It was an effort to keep his voice light and unaffected.

            “Is it?” Something in Bombur’s tone had changed, and it had Bofur struggling to mask the guilty expression that was fighting to show itself. “What, d’you think I’m blind? I’ve seen the way you look at that writer bloke.”

            “The hell are ye on about?” His back had gone tense, and his eyes were glinting.

            “So defensive. You have it bad, don’tcha?”

            “Mayhaps I’m defensive because I’m sick t’the teeth of you an’ Bifur gettin’ on me case about things tha’ don’t concern you.” He swore under his breath as his cousin appeared behind Bombur, head cocked to the side.

            _What’s going on?_ he signed. _The both of you should be in bed by now._

“What’re we, children? You don’t decide our bedtime anymore, cousin.”

              _Indulge an old man._  As Bombur left, throwing a teasing glance over his shoulder for his brother, Bifur turned to regard Bofur fully.

            _Where were you?_

“Out an’ about. I’m home now, aren’t I?”

            _Were you with him?_

“Fer pity’s sake, what does it matter?”

            _It matters because you’ve been distracted at work. We can’t afford that._

Not for the first time, Bofur wished their kitchen wasn’t a dead-end one. Then he might be able to escape without having to endure the Spanish Inquisition. “Is it so wrong fer me t’be friendly with the customers, then?”

            Bifur aimed a stern look at him. _Bombur tells me you leave your post behind the counter whenever he comes in. If we’re to stay in business you need to be more professional._

Bilbo: Bofur? It’s been nearly forty minutes since you left. Are you alright?

           

            Bifur took note of how his cousin jumped at the phone’s vibration before eagerly flipping it open. Saw how his eyes flicked to the bedroom door and back.

            “Oh no, don’t give me that look. I’m an adult and I can take care of meself.”

            _I have no doubt. It is not you I’m worried for._

            A twitch was beginning under Bofur’s eye. “I’ve had enough of this bloody nonsense. I’m going to bed.” He sidled quickly past his cousin, avoiding his eyes entirely but nevertheless feeling the weight of Bifur’s gaze press close and uncomfortable over his shoulders as made his way to the bedroom.

           

Bofur: Sorry about that. Got in ten minutes ago.  
Bilbo: Oh good. You had me worried for a little while. Everything alright?

 

            Bofur’s fingers hovered above the buttons, brow creasing. He began to type out a reply, only to delete it with a frustrated mutter. Twice more he tried to give a succinct summary of why he hadn’t texted sooner, but to no avail.

  
Bofur: Yes of course. Just didn’t think about it, that’s all.  
Bilbo: Well, you’re alright and that’s what’s important. Thanks for meeting with me, I appreciate it.  
Bofur: Glad to help out. I need to sleep now.  
Bilbo: Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you up.  
Bilbo: Sleep well then.  
Bofur: I’ll certainly try. G’night.  
Bilbo: Good night.

 

            Bilbo sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone for a long time after he’d said good night. It may have just been fatigue talking, but he could have sworn something wasn’t quite right. They may have only been texts but it seemed that not all was well with Bofur’s world as he’d asserted. He seemed more…stilted, more abrupt than usual. Less teasing and less willing to talk.

            “Well, it is rather late. Likely he’s just anxious to sleep, that’s all.” With that reassurance, Bilbo finally set his phone aside, turned out his bedside lamp and got beneath his covers. Tried valiantly to shake the unease that had settled over him. Bofur had said everything was fine, and Bilbo had no reason not to believe him.

 

 

 He’d had what, at any other time, he might have dubbed an extremely strange dream. But given the events of the past week in general and last night very much in particular, Bilbo really couldn’t feel too surprised.

            He’d dreamt that he’d met Bofur to give him the next chapter of _There and Back Again_ , and that his friend had kissed him in thanks.

            On the mouth. For more than ten whole minutes.

            Then they’d gone on to sit down and discuss the chapter as if nothing had happened, only somehow they were at Bilbo’s office at work and dressed in each other’s clothes. All in all, Bilbo was not quite sure which part of the dream he found the most unsettling.

            But it was the kiss that had stayed with him – all slow, sliding lips and hitching, heated breathing. Even now, as he watched his nephew try and swing right up to the sky, he felt a little curl in his stomach that wasn’t exactly comfortable but in no way unpleasant.

            At least he could pretend that the little shivers skittering down his spine were a result of the chilly weather.

            He had to consciously tear himself away from the movie reel of his dream, playing through his head over and over again. Looking back down at his notebook, the words ‘Dwarves- cleaning song’ were still sitting quiet and open and full of possibility on the page before him.

            _“Mayhaps t’do with all the awful things they_ could _do to his dishes, blunting the knives or some such offense, but then not actually do them.”_

Well, blunting the knives was certainly a place to start, and why not bend the forks whilst they were at it?

            “What’s so funny?” Frodo bounded up to him, cheeks pink from cold and from swinging for all he was worth for the past fifteen minutes. Bilbo reflexively put a hand over his writing, tried to stifle his insistent chortling, but relented when Frodo pulled a face at him.

            “It’s just a little something for the story that Uncle’s writing, that’s all.”

            “Can I see it?”

            “It probably wouldn’t make sense, my lad. You’d need the rest of the chapter for that.”

            “So you’ll let me read it then?” He beamed with blue eyes shining in mischief.

            Bilbo smiled and chucked the boy under his chin. “Nice try, Frodo. You’ll see it when it’s done, never you fear.”

            “But that’s so far away,” he whined. “You let Mister Bofur see it!”

            “Ahem. That’s, ah…that’s rather different. He’s just helping me make sure there aren’t any mistakes in it, that’s all.”

            “Suuuure. I bet he’s secretly only doing it so’s he can read it before anyone else.” He crossed his arms, though the stance’s edge was softened a great deal by the pout he had put on. “Please can I read just that _tiny_ little bit? I’ll stop asking after, I promise. _Pinky_ -promise.”

            Bilbo aimed an exasperated look at his nephew, though it was tempered by a deep fondness. Really, he should be flattered that his nephew simply assumed whatever he wrote would be wonderful. And really, what was the harm in showing him one out-of-context, silly little song about destroying a Hobbit’s dining dishes?

            “I’ll tell you what – you let me finish this one little bit, and then when I say so you may look at it. Alright?”

            “Okay.” He smiled and tugged on Bilbo’s sleeve. “Come play on the jungle gym with me! There’s no one else on so we get it all to ourselves.”

            “Why don’t you go and lay claim to it then? I’ll be along in a moment.” He pulled out his phone as his nephew scampered away.

 

Bilbo: Added in a cleaning-song as per your suggestion. Would like your opinion, if you’re willing.

 

            He tried not to feel too disappointed when he’d no reply after ten minutes. At the fifteen-minute mark, he indulged himself and fired off another message.

 

Bilbo: I hope work’s going well for you. Did you sleep alright?

 

            His watch beeped as he and Frodo went for lunch; it was now high noon and more than an hour since he’d texted Bofur. His hand kept straying to his pocket as he drove the pair of them home, half-listening to Frodo’s chatter.

 

Bilbo: (1/2) Well, you’re obviously busy. I might swing by later anyway; you still owe me a tea for chapter one as I recall. Hope things are going better for you and (2/2) your family. Should be by within the hour.

 

            The sudden, long buzzes against his thigh as he drove towards At Your Service nearly had him jumping right through the roof of his car; he barely made a cursory check for police cars before answering.

            “Bofur?”

            “Listen, I’m on break and I don’t have much time left; I only jus’ got yer texts ’cause me phone was off. Don’t come.”

            “What?”

            A hard, frustrated sigh crackled through the line. “It’s not – ye’ve done nothin’ wrong, I promise ye that. It’s not tha’ I don’t want ye to come, because I’m always happy t’see you. But ye can’t today. I’m sorry.”

            “Bofur, what’s going on?” He had to navigate into a nearby grocery parking lot, stop his car for a few moments. “Is something wrong at the shop? Is one of your family ailing?”

            “Sure and they’re messed in their heads,” he muttered, and Bilbo tensed at the bitterness that colored the other’s tone – it sat ill on a voice that was normally so sweetly teasing. “Let’s jus’ say there were words between us last night an’ leave it at that.”

            “I don’t understand. What has that got to do with me?”

            Bofur was quiet for a long moment, and when at last he spoke it was as though each word were being dragged out of him. “My idiot cousin thinks ye distract me t’the point that it’s bad fer business.”

            “O – oh. I see.” Something wilted in him, and he felt his heart sink from where it had risen as soon as he’d known that Bofur was calling.

            “He’s wrong, mind you.” Bofur was hasty to reassure him, a note of urgency coloring his voice now. “I mean, ye _do_ distract me, but in a good way. A wonderful way. He’s just got a stick up his arse ’cause he’s worried, but it is not you tha’s the problem.”

            “Right.”

            He could almost hear the other wince. “I’m so sorry t’have t’do this to you, Bilbo. Ye can come in tomorrow, if ye like. I jus’ want t’give this dunderhead time t’cool off a bit.”

            Bilbo sat silent a moment, trying to dispel the sudden, disproportionate gloom that had settled over him. “No, I understand.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “You don’t need to apologize.” He tried to sound soothing. “It’s in no way your fault that your cousin’s a bit hard up. Can I still text you?”

            “Of course ye can, anytime ye like. It may be a bit before I can reply though.”

            “That’s fine.” _It’s not fine. I want to know immediately if you’re okay._ “I don’t want you to be in more trouble, so I’m going to hang up now.” He swallowed. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

            “Ye can bet on it.”

            “I look forward to it. You have a good one, you hear?”

            “I’ll try. Thanks fer understandin’. ’Bye now.”

            “Goodbye.”

            Well, at least now he had some time. He could finish looking over chapter two, and bring it as a surprise pick-me-up for Bofur tomorrow. With any luck, it would return that infectious smile to his friend’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize most ardently for the sudden angst overload ;_;


	10. Chapter 10

It did not occur to Bilbo until he was leaving for At Your Service the next morning, when everything suddenly fell into place and had him freezing mid-walk to his car.

            He was…well, the first word that sprung unhelpfully to mind was ‘twitterpated’. After inwardly shuddering (and quickly resuming his hasty steps to the car), he cast his writer’s mind around for a suitable alternative. ‘Puppy-love’, ‘crush’, and ‘infatuation of a rather high degree’ seemed to him to be similarly inadequate.

            _Who says you have to label anything?_ And indeed, it was entirely possible he was getting ahead of himself. Assuming too much, too soon.

            The chapter sitting on the passenger’s seat, his rapidly growing track record of doing what he could to make Bofur smile, and the ever-present memories of how the other looked at him whenever something even remotely physical happened between them weren’t fooled by such waffling, and said something else entirely. And Bilbo’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as though he could steer himself away from such thoughts.

            He found his stomach partaking in rather extensive gymnastics as he parked and plodded with sudden, slightly manic trepidation towards the café. As he neared the door he wondered wildly if Bofur was on similar tenterhooks.

            _Closed due to resupplying and general whimsy. Will return to your service come noon._

Bilbo cocked his head to the side, unsure if he should chuckle or be worried or both – it was, after all, just barely ten and he did not want to wait two hours to see his friend. He settled instead for pulling out his phone, and on impulse dialed in Bofur’s number.

            “ ’lo?”

            “Hello, Bofur? It’s Bilbo; I came by the shop as I – as we planned yesterday, but it seems to be closed due to ‘general whimsy’.” His lips quirked a bit. “Might I implore said whimsy to explain why?”

            “Never y’fear, sunshine. Be down in a sec.”

            The line went dead, and not thirty seconds later Bilbo heard the lock click and then Bofur was there, leaning against the frame with relief-tempered exhaustion plain on his face.

            “What, y’just goin’ t’stand there all day then?”

            Bilbo raised his chin and peered over his spectacles, causing a familiar sparkling dance to kick up its heels in Bofur’s eyes. “I was hoping you might ask me in first,” he drawled in the most pompous voice he could manage.

            Then Bofur was suddenly laughing and wrapping his arms around Bilbo in a hug that somehow managed at once to be tender and fierce, and Bilbo could feel his breath stutter along with his heart. But his own arms were not nearly so hesitant, and came up on instinct.

            “ ’m glad you came.”

            “Me…me too. I was worried about you.”

            “Were you now?” Bofur pulled back but did not loose his hold on the younger, and his green eyes were soft and just a little shy. “Ye didn’t need t’be.”

            “Doesn’t change the fact that I was.” He was, for some odd reason, finding it suddenly difficult to take in adequate oxygen. They were just so _close._ And touching, chest to thigh, and he was suddenly quite warm on such a cold November’s day.

            His lips were right there…

            “Come on in, then.” Bofur pulled away after an impossibly long moment, held the door open and swept a mock-bow as Bilbo belatedly made his way over the threshold.

            “So if – if you don’t mind my asking, what’s with the note out front?”

            Bofur’s ears went a distinct shade of pink. “Ah, about that…”

            “Yes?”

            He grinned without any hint of apology. “I convinced th’ lads to take the morning off, an’ put up the note so’s we could chat, just you and I. This way I can give ye my full attention without feelin’ like I’m neglectin’ the shop.” He eyed Bilbo closely, almost in a ‘did-I-do-good-tell-me-I-did-good’ kind of way.

            “Thank you, Bofur.” Bilbo returned his grin, felt the strangest sense of carefree youthfulness rise up in him. “Though I daresay your cousin will be out for my blood when he finds out you were alone with me.”

            “Oho, surely ye aren’t implyin’ me honor’s in any danger?” He batted his lashes, pressed a hand to his chest. “Surely ye wouldna take advantage of a helpless laddie like meself!”

            Bilbo snorted before he could stop himself. “I highly doubt you of all people are helpless in any way.”

            “Care t’test that theory?” He looked so earnestly hopeful for a moment that Bilbo had to plant his feet so as to prevent himself from doing just that. Bofur’s brow quirked oh so subtly before his pupils dilated, as if he’d read Bilbo’s mind and wholeheartedly approved of what he’d seen there.

            Bilbo blinked and then cleared his throat, shifted his weight.

            “I made tea.” Bofur’s gaze had not wavered, nor had his stance. “Pipin’ hot, and with some scones and cream on standby.”

            “Tea sounds lovely.” They moved together, heading towards Bilbo’s usual spot at the back. “What kind of scones?”

            “Cranberry-cheddar.” The rapid rise of Bilbo’s brow had him chuckling and waggling a finger at him. “No need fer that look, sunshine. Can’t knock it till ye’ve tried it.”

            “Fair enough.” He sat and waited for Bofur to retrieve their refreshments before reaching into his bag to retrieve his writing and placing it in Bofur’s spot, across from himself. Tried his best to look nonchalant but knew he was doing a rather poor job.

            And, oddly enough, he simply didn't care that he couldn’t hide his inner excitement. He felt safe here, with Bofur.

            “Now ye took it black last time, if I’m rememberin’ correctly, so I din’t put in any cream or…or sugar.” He stopped, head cocking to the side at the neat stack of paper awaiting him. Set down teapot, mugs and scones and let his eyes focus on the words on the page.

            Bilbo realized he was holding his breath, and had to make a Herculean effort to not have it whooshing out all of a sudden. His hands beneath the tabletop had fisted themselves in his slacks, and his foot was trying to do a solo tap-dance show.

            “Well, I certainly never thought ye’d be up fer round two so quick, but I’m not complaining.” He brushed his fingers over the top page. “How did ye know this’d be just the thing t’cheer me up?”

            “Call it an educated guess. And speaking of cheering up…” he hesitated, fingers curling around his cup to anchor him. “What exactly was it that had happened yesterday? Or Friday night, I should say. I don’t want to dwell on it for too long as it obviously weighs heavy on you, but I’d like to know so I can help you avoid that in the future.”

            His heart was all of aflutter again as he could practically see Bofur’s shields coming down at first mention of the confrontation he’d had, but there was something else behind his eyes that said _I want to tell you._ _I want to tell you everything._ And it was that that had him persisting, keeping his eyes and expression clear of judgment as Bofur considered the question put to him.

            It took a good ten minutes and a scone and a half (they were actually surprisingly delicious) for him to tell Bilbo the whole of it, and then he fell to silence again as Bilbo refreshed both of their cups.

            “Tha’s the whole of it, really.” Bofur did not seem sad or angry exactly; it was more a resigned look that had befallen him.  

            Bilbo simply nodded; he had not said a word so that Bofur would feel able to talk freely until he felt done. And while he was feeling any number of emotions swirling thickly in his head, he was careful to keep them under wraps as he posed his next question.

            “Does it bother you? Being distracted by me, I mean?”

            “Now wherever did ye get such an idea?”

            “Because it seems to me that when you’re working, me being here could be a problem – I mean, it’s clear to see that you love your work, and if my presence interferes with that maybe it’s best if I don’t show up quite so often. And I can tell it bothers you to not have your family’s approval, so I…I just wondered.”

            “Now who’s the mind reader, I don’t wonder.” There was a flicker in his gaze, and he reached a hand out before thinking better of it and withdrawing again. “What do you think?”

            Bilbo took a hasty gulp of tea to wet a suddenly dry throat, and let his eyes fall away. He was having enough realizations in the past week or two; he was going to allow himself to be a bit of a coward when it came time to face the reality of just what said realizations meant. “To be honest? I can’t tell. Not entirely.”

            A warm, slightly calloused hand covered his, and when he glanced up Bofur was wearing a very odd look indeed.

            “If there’s one thing I’ve noticed about writers,” he murmured, “it’s that you all have the most ridiculous tendency t’sell yerselves short. It may be true that I gen’rally don’t care overmuch fer distractions from work, but why on earth should tha’ mean I don’t enjoy it when ye pop into me place and make my day that much better?”

            His thumb brushed over Bilbo’s knuckles absentmindedly. “Yer funny, intelligent, a pretty decent writer, and’ve got such a wealth of kindness in ye. Why wouldn’t I enjoy bein’ distracted?”

            Bilbo had gone perfectly still, but Bofur’s next words had him starting in his seat. “What about you? Does bein’ distracted by me bother you?”

            “No.” The response was automatic, emphatic, and had a raging blush spreading under his cheeks. His eyes fell away again, and came to rest on Bofur’s mouth. “No, I can’t say that it does.”

            Bofur nodded slowly, his own eyes having mimicked the motion of Bilbo’s. Their fingers seemed to weave themselves together of their own accord, and Bofur’s free hand had come up to gently brush over Bilbo’s cheek. Their eyes flicked up to meet, and back down again, and their faces were suddenly much closer together.

            Bilbo could feel Bofur’s breath ghosting over his skin, the sensation increasing as his tongue flitted out to wet his lips. And when his met Bofur’s a moment later, he was immediately grateful that he was currently sitting down – his knees had nearly buckled beneath him, and then the room was spinning.

            It was almost exactly as his dream had been, and infinitely more satisfying for being real. Bofur kissed with a gentle expertise, the sliding of his lips over Bilbo’s slow and soft and perfect. He felt a spear-tipped sweetness pour through him as he inhaled deeply, the coffee-and-woodsmoke scent that was Bofur surrounding his every sense.

            His eyes were heavy, his chest tight as they pulled back a moment, and the both of them huffed a bit of a laugh at the awestruck look on each other’s faces. Then their lips were pressing together again, harder this time, hands coming up to frame faces or hold fast to strong shoulders. There was heat, there was promise, and their breathing became steadily shakier. Particularly when Bilbo, heart roaring in his ears, licked at Bofur’s bottom lip and felt the man’s groan echo through him as he opened his mouth. Their tongues glided together, and Bilbo nearly whimpered at the muted fire that was now burning just beneath his skin.

            They were standing. How had they come to be standing? How had his hands come to be tangled lightly in the hair at the base of Bofur’s neck? Then they were pressed together and all coherent thought fled.

            It wasn’t until Bilbo’s watch began its insistent beeping, signaling the new hour, that they broke apart, both breathing heavily and with arms locked tight around each other.

            “What – wha’ is it?”

            “It’s gone eleven.” He managed to shut off the infernal thing without letting go, sent an apologetic smile to his friend. “I…well.” He felt his smile bloom ever brighter over his features. “I don’t have any words at the moment.”

            “Tha’s alright, luv.” Bofur’s eyes were shining, and he seemed entirely alright with having to relearn how to breathe. “Sometimes words don’t cut it, and tha’s perfectly alright.”

            “Ah, but I’m a big, important author,” he chided, tugging lightly at Bofur’s braid. “I should be able to find the words for anything.” He felt himself falter a bit then, and his tone got a bit more serious. “Is this – I realize this is probably an entirely foolish question, but is this alright? Will it change things, I mean?”

            “How d’you mean?”

            “Much as I’m loath to bring it up, especially at a time like this, what is your family going to say? Will it become unfavorable for me to come by anymore?” To take the weight out of his words, he let himself smile a bit. “Will you keep editing for me?”

            Bofur chuckled and rested his forehead against Bilbo’s. “Ye couldn’t stop me editin’ for you if ye tried. Ye’ve thoroughly caught me attentions, ye know.”

            “You’re incorrigible.” He squeezed Bofur’s shoulder, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It’s rather endearing, if I do say so myself.”

            Bofur caught his mouth again. “Ye let me worry about me family,” he whispered against Bilbo’s lips. “I’ll take care of it.”

            “Alright.” Reluctantly he pulled away, though everything in him wanted very much to stay exactly where he was. “If you’re opening at noon, I should leave soon. Give you time to get settled and all that.”

            But Bofur would not let him go so easily. “In a minute,” he murmured, and pulled Bilbo back to him.


	11. Chapter 11

It had been two weeks and more since they’d finally stopped beating around the bush and acted on their feelings for one another, and Bilbo could not easily recall a more pleasant fortnight.

            Strange, he often thought, how he’d assumed that everything would become a great deal more complicated for the pair of them, when in reality not so much had changed. He still spent a couple of evenings, or perhaps a weekend afternoon at the café, writing as ever and enjoying a tea or coffee or Bofur’s newest baked creation. Bofur still flirted with him shamelessly, eyes agleam with mischief and often winking. They still shared text conversations every couple of days (usually instigated when one or other of them was having a slow day at work and felt like unrestrainedly peppering the other with questions or tidbits about their day).

            The only palpable change between them now was the fact that they were dating. Either Bilbo might stop by At Your Service on his way home from work on those days that he worked late, or Bofur would make lunch for the pair of them on the days where he worked in the afternoon and evenings. Bofur would still cheerfully pester Bilbo for more chapters of his book, and a few of their dates had been focused on the editing and discussion of such. The thing was rapidly taking shape, and Bilbo thought he could safely say that he was at the halfway point of his story.

            “D’you really think so? Half done already?” Bofur pulled a mock-frown, tapping his pen against the latest chapter. “Ye’re certainly a quick an’ confident one. I shall be sad t’see this go.”

            “I should have known you only wanted me for my writing.” Bilbo heaved a dramatic sigh. “In that case, my dear fellow, once this is over I’m afraid I shall have no choice but to remove myself henceforth from your otherwise good company –”

            Bofur snatched him around the waist and proceeded to soundly kiss his words away, but the effect was rather spoilt by the fact that he was trying (and dismally failing) to stifle his burgeoning laughter.

            “There’s no way under th’ sun I’d let ye get away from me so easy,” he chuckled, arms snug about Bilbo’s front. “Even though yer especially long-winded when ye tease, it seems. And whatever d’you mean by ‘otherwise’ good company?”

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Bilbo mused, leaning his head back to rest against Bofur’s shoulder. “I mean, you’re certainly useful for the editing and all that, but overall you really are a most improper – ah!”

            “Did you have somethin’ t’say?” Bilbo felt Bofur’s wicked grin over his pulse point, pleasantly stinging from the wet little nip he’d just placed there.

            “You see?” Smiling to himself, Bilbo took up his pen again and pulled his draft towards him to continue his perusal. “Rather entirely improper.”

            “Aw, I thought ye _liked_ it that way.”

            “Preposterous. Lies and slander.”

            Bofur nuzzled into Bilbo’s neck, relishing in the feel of holding the other in his arms. Lazily he began to mouth at the smooth skin there, causing delightfully tense shivers to skitter quickly down Bilbo’s spine.

            “Now Bofur,” he admonished (well, he liked to think the hitching, breathy moan that edged his voice sounded admonishing), “What have I t-told you about leaving marks in, _mm_ , visible places?”

            Bofur paused only to chuckle, the deep rumbling of it just behind Bilbo’s ear not helping at all.

            “As I recall, ye got home only t’have yer nephew think you’d been hurt, and insist he put three separate band-aids on it. Next thing I know yer ringing me up all flustered an’ embarrassed an’ I can’t breathe fer laughing.”

            “Yes, well I am no hurry to repeat such an experience.”

            “Aren’t ye though? Ye were makin’ a fair bit o’ noise, as I recall.”

            “Not _that_. I meant having to endure my seven-year-old wondering over every possibly scenario that could have landed his Uncle with an inch-wide bruise on his n-neck.” Bofur’s lips had trailed up to a small spot behind his ear now, the movement causing liquid heat to trickle deliciously through his veins.

            “No more marks, I promise. At least,” he smiled again, “none as can be seen by yer relations.”

            Bilbo struggled to breathe evenly, secretly quite pleased that Bofur had not ceased in his attentions. It had been ever so long a time since he’d last been in such a position. The arms locked tight though gentle about his stomach spoke of security and of comfort, two feelings Bilbo had been rather deprived of beforehand.

            Not that he’d realized this, of course. It had taken the dream of a book, a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop and his own need for adventure to change that.

            “Hey, ye with me?” Noticing Bilbo’s quieting, Bofur lifted his head and craned his neck so that he could see Bilbo’s face. “Ye’re awfully quiet.”

            “Hm? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking, that’s all.”

            “Wha’ about, if ye don’t mind me askin’?” Something akin to worry flashed through his eyes. “If I’ve made ye uncomfortable I’ll stop; ye’ve only to say so.”

            “I should think my manner speaks well enough to the fact that I enjoy your, ah –” he cast around wildly for the proper phrasing, “that I enjoy whatever it is that transpires between us.”

            “Sure an’ ye describe the simplest things in th’ most ridiculous way possible.” Though his tone was teasing, his eyes remained subtly troubled. “Now, where were we in this chapter? This bit in th’ barrels, here –” and he was off, questioning the plot and the characters’ decisions. Bilbo went along with it, thrilled that Bofur was so keen to discuss his work and all its intricacies, and studiously ignored the tiny flicker of wrongness that was now trying to settle in his gut.

 

 

“Uncle?”

            Bilbo was sitting at his desk, shoulders set in an unyielding line, frowning at his laptop. He’d been right in the middle of describing Martin the Hobbit’s descent into the Dwarven kingdom to seek out the dragon, and his flow had come to a screeching halt. Dry as dust and just as useless. He was utterly stuck and hadn’t the faintest idea of how to continue, and the fact that this was his first real encounter with writer’s block in the whole of this venture was making him incredibly cross.

            “Uncle?” A tug at his sleeve.

            “Not now, Frodo. Uncle’s busy.”

            The boy cocked his head to the side. “Doesn’t _look_ like it.”

            “I’m busy thinking.”

            “Oh.” His brow puckered as he mulled this over. “Are you really really super busy thinking, or only a little bit?”

            Bilbo bit back a sigh as his headache started to throb. “The first one. What do you need?”

            “Nana Donna wants to talk to you and Papa Bungo. She won’t let me in, though,” he grumbled, entirely oblivious to the way his uncle’s eyes had gone sharp as his body tensed. “She said it’s only for _grownups_.”

            “And right she is, too,” he said without thinking, and had Frodo looking as though he’d been betrayed. “You run along to your room now, my lad.”

            “Will you play with me after?” Bilbo aimed a distracted glance down at his nephew, and part of him suddenly felt awful for having caused such worry on such a young child’s face. “You’ve been in here for forever an’ I miss you.”

            “Alright.” He may as well; it could help to clear his head a bit. Might even get his imagination going again. “Alright, Frodo. I’ll go talk to Nana and Papa and then we’ll play for a little while.”

            “Okay.” He hugged Bilbo hard around his waist before turning and scuttling to his room. Feeling the oddest sense of loss take him, Bilbo pushed to his feet and made his way to the front room.

            “Ah, there you are. We were about to send in a search party.” His mother glanced up at him from her spot on the sofa, a strained smile sitting on her face. “Have a seat.”

            He folded himself into his favorite armchair, though he found he could not relax into the smooth leather as he usually did. “What’s this about?”

            Belladonna pursed her lips, looked to her husband beside her. Bungo was sitting rather like Bilbo was, arms crossed and looking most unhappy about being present for such proceedings.

            When had his father gained so many grey hairs? And since when did he look so – _not weak. Never weak. He’s just a bit tired, I’m sure. Getting on in years and all that._

“Tell him, dear.”

            “Nothin’ to tell.” Bungo’s voice was low and even and mule-stubborn. “I’m perfectly alright.”

            “Nonsense. You’ve missed three days at work in the past month, and you’re not eating like a horse as you usually do, and you’re always moaning and groaning about how tired you are.” Pleadingly she looked to Bilbo, and that was an expression he’d never expected to see on his mother’s face. “Surely you’ve noticed as well, Bilbo. Why, you were the one to tell me of it first. Tell him he’s overworking himself.”

            Bilbo sat dumbstruck, the words he’d had with Bungo that seemingly long-ago night coming back to him in a rush.

            _“You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? Skipped too many lunches as well, I’d wager.”_

_“You sound like your mother. Always fussing when there’s nothing to be fussed over.”_

He came back to the present, looked to his father, and Bungo would not meet his eyes.

            “Is that what this is then?” The myriad frustrations he’d been battling the whole day welled up like bile in his throat, fueled by anger at himself for not noticing. “You being too damn prideful to admit that you’re ill?”

            “Don’t talk to your father that way.”

            “How else shall I talk to him? He won’t answer what I say anyway. As I recall, when last I pressed him about it he told me to mind my own business.”

            “It is not a child’s duty to tend to his parent.” Bungo finally spoke, and when he met his son’s gaze it was full of bitterness. “And you should be minding your own business, with whatever it is that has you all but a ghost in this house and gone all hours of the night.”

            Bilbo felt himself flush up then, a protective fury sparking in his stomach. “At least my business is something that is good for my health and keeps me happy.” He might feel guilty for not noticing his father’s condition, but damned if he would be made to feel bad for writing a book or for being involved with Bofur. “I’m a grown man and my business is my own. But were I ill I would not seek to hide it from my family. To do so is prideful, selfish, and cruel.”

            “Is it not also selfish to be absentminded all day at work?” Bungo’s face had gone an ugly puce color. “It’s you and I both that are the breadwinners in this family, Bilbo Baggins. I expect you to act the part, not sit around staring out the window and texting your blasted boyfriend on that phone of yours all bloody day!”

            Bilbo physically felt all the color drain away from his face. He was on his feet without remembering standing, and felt a fierce satisfaction at the shocked expression on his father’s face.

            “Don’t you dare bring Bofur into this. He’s done nothing wrong.”

            “I’d say taking you away from your duties at work and your duty to your nephew is wrong.” It was Bilbo’s turn to be shocked, and Bungo knew he’d struck home. “What will you tell Frodo, when you no longer have time for him?”

            “That won’t happen. You know I wouldn’t let it.” He was shaking. “How can you say such things?”

            “Because while he is still a child, and until he’s gone on to make his own way, your responsibility to care for him. As it is all of ours,” he conceded after a moment. “You cannot be gallivanting off every which way all of the time.”

            “That’s nonsense; I spend time with him every day!”

            “And you’d best enjoy that while you can, m’boy.” Bungo’s face fell slightly, and the look he aimed at his son was brimming with regret. “Once he’s grown, he may not have time for _you_.”

            The fire raging in him snapped to ice as he suddenly understood what his father was telling him. Cold all through, shoulders sagging in defeat, he turned and left the room without another word.

            “What’s wrong, Uncle?”

            “Nothing. Now tell me,” pushing his father’s face out of his head, he conjured up a bright smile for his Frodo. “How would _you_ go about wringing information from a dragon?”

            “You’d have to be real tricky,” he said, lighting up. They ended up pretending to be a knight questioning a dragon about the royal jewels he’d stolen from a nearby castle, and it helped settle Bilbo a little to see Frodo with his race-car blanket tied to his wrists for wings as he strutted about, protecting his ‘treasure’ (a combination of Lego, comic books and all of his yellow crayons).

            An hour later, as he was settling into bed and trying very hard to not think about the conversation he’d had with his father, his phone suddenly buzzed on the bedside table.

 

Bofur: When can I see you again?

 

            Bilbo stared at the screen for a long moment, Bungo’s words racing back to slash away at his conscience. _All but a ghost in this house. Selfish. Taking you away from your duties._

_What will you tell Frodo?_

His breath came out on a shuddering sigh, and he covered his face with his free hand. Then he dialed Bofur’s number, and hoped against hope that he was not about to make matters worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to future chapters and the posting of such:
> 
> I started my senior year of college yesterday, and as such due to a full course load, extracurriculars and my job I will not be updating nearly as often as I'd like to :( 
> 
> From here on out, barring any suddenly free days I may encounter, I will be updating once weekly on Sunday evenings (Pacific Standard Time). Wish I could do more, but that's what I get for being a full-time student and getting my life in order x]
> 
> Thanks again for all your continued readership, commenting and giving of kudos. It really does mean the world to me and y'all are a pleasure to write for <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell with it, I'm posting a day early 'cause I stayed up till three in the morning finishing this chapter and I'm so excited to get into the meat of the ending in these last few chapters and yeah. Enjoy :D

“Bilbo?”

            He started a bit in his seat, the large hot chocolate gone cool in its untouched cup. Blearily he looked around the place, realized that aside from himself, Bofur and Bifur, the shop was quite empty.

            After calling Bofur they’d agreed to meet at the shop; Bilbo had called early enough in the evening for them to still be open for business but late enough that they’d be closing within the hour. The fearful trembling in Bilbo’s voice had startled Bofur enough to tell him to swing by, and that as soon as the shop had closed for the night that they could talk.

            Now, he gently pulled the cup away from Bilbo’s slack grip but did not sit down next to him. He took it over to the counter, where his cousin shot him a disquieting glance.

            _While I appreciate you did not get distracted during your shift, why is he here after hours?_

“I’m not sure.” Bofur’s brow was pinched in worry, and his fingers beat a staccato tattoo against the espresso machine. “He called me up about an hour ago sounding fer all the world like he was about t’burst into tears. Said he needed t’talk.”

            Bifur glanced over to Bilbo, unmoving and looking a bit shell-shocked. Back to his younger cousin, who wore an expression of hesitant defiance.

            _Don’t take too long._

            “Thank you.” Relieved, he clapped Bifur on his shoulder. “I’ll be up in a tick.”

            Bifur nearly chuckled, almost as if to say “I know you won’t, but thanks for saying so.” Then he was gone up the stairs to their apartment, and Bofur took a moment to steel himself for whatever it is that was troubling his friend.

            “Oh for pity’s sake, I’m not going to bite.”

            Bofur’s brow shot up as he turned to face Bilbo. “Did I say ye would?”

            “You’re nervous, and clearly reluctant to get near me.”

            “Hey now, ye know that’s nonsense.” But as he drew near, his stride faltered just so slightly, and he halted just out of arms reach. “If anythin’ it seems ye don’t want me near fer whatever reason.”

            “I asked to meet you, did I not?” Bilbo looked up then, and his eyes swam with confusion, with hurt. “I would not have done so if I didn’t want to be near you.”

            “Well then.” Bofur allowed himself a small smile as he closed the space between them. “I don’t know what we’re waitin’ for.” He took Bilbo’s hands, drew him to his feet. Enfolded him to his broad chest with a tender kiss to the forehead.

            Bilbo held his gaze for a moment longer, emotion warring on his features, and then on an exhausted, shuddering sigh he buried his face in Bofur’s shirtfront and flung his arms about his waist. Bofur rocked with the impact but his feet were planted firmly; he was going to be steady for Bilbo no matter what had happened. He was going to make it all better.

            “That’s it, luv. I’ve got yeh.” Murmuring the soft words, he began to slowly stroke one of his hands over Bilbo’s spine, up and down, over and over again. “Let it all out now.” Felt something inside him break a little as twin, searing tear-streams came forth to dampen his shirt. Bilbo never made a sound, though his shoulders were shaking like a sapling in a windstorm.

            Everything inside him was clenching in hard, arrhythmic spasms as he clutched at Bofur with growing desperation, as though he just couldn’t get close enough, hold tight enough. He couldn’t get _near_ enough, not with this sudden doubt and fear now growing like killing weeds inside his mind. How could his father have done this to him? Thrown the things that made him happiest at his heart like a spear, pierced through all the certainty in his choices? Dared to pretend that he was supposed to choose, that he _could_ choose between his dreams and his family, and implying that somehow the former would drive him away from the latter? Why couldn’t he have both without this jagged ache inside his chest?

            _No._ He would not give in to this. He’d find a way. He’d show his father just how very wrong he was, about everything. It wasn’t until he heard a murmured question in his ear that he realized he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.

            “I’m n-not letting you go no matter what they say.”

            “What?” Bilbo felt Bofur’s heart trip over itself before the other was pulling back, just enough to tip up Bilbo’s chin and search his tear-streaked gaze. “No matter what who says?”

            “My – I had a quarrel with my father, and he s-said some things that – that sounded like –” He was trying so hard not to weep further; he did not want Bofur to see him like this. “I won’t leave you. I won’t do it.”

            “Nobody’s said anythin’ about leavin’ anybody.” Bofur’s words were hard, and Bilbo could swear he saw a flash of anger in his friend’s eyes. Then Bofur was holding him close again, his grip like loving steel. “Don’t ye even worry yerself about that. I’m right here and I’m not goin’ anywhere, I promise.”

            If anything, Bofur’s reassurance made Bilbo want to cry all the harder – he was being so steadfast, so unfailingly kind, and yet things were going to have to change. He was going to have to look into Bofur’s eyes and tell him that things had to change for the worse, and the knowledge tore at him. He didn’t want to hurt Bofur. He didn’t want to hurt anybody, not even his father. But by his own foolishness he’d already done so, and now he had to pay the price for his actions.

            Bofur slowly guided him back to his seat, drew up a chair beside him and kept one arm firm about his shoulders, wordlessly urging Bilbo to lay his head in the crook of Bofur’s neck. He brought up a thumb to brush away his friend’s tears, and Bilbo clutched at his hand with one of his own, pressed a hard kiss to the palm.

            “Can ye tell me what happened?”

            He stiffened, and his eyes darted towards Bofur’s before making a hasty retreat. “I don’t…I’m not sure I have the words yet.”

            “Ye said ye quarreled with yer father,” Bofur prompted, threading his fingers with Bilbo’s. “What started that, exactly?”

            For a moment Bofur thought he’d pushed too far too soon, if the hardening of Bilbo’s jaw and the pain in his eyes was any indication. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Bilbo shook his head.

            “No, you’ve a right to know. Especially after I pestered you for so long about your own family matters. And really, I s-suppose my situation is not so different from what yours was – is?” He chanced a look at the other. “I’ve meant to ask about that, actually. How did Bifur and Bombur take the news about us being together? I do hope it’s improved.”

            Bofur shrugged. “Ach, all Bombur did was give me that blasted smug look of ’is, the one that says ‘I told ye so’ and told Bifur t’pay up. Apparently they’d made a wager on how long it would take fer us to…well, y’know well what I mean. Anyway, imagine th’ look on me face when the old sourpuss dug a tenner out of ’is pocket and proceeded to lecture me about how he still expected utmost professionalism and th’ like.” He might have smiled then but for not wanting to appear insensitive to Bilbo, and so kept a straight face.

            Bilbo seemed momentarily distracted by such information. “They wagered on when we would become involved with one another?”

            “’m afraid so, sunshine.”

            “Hm. I only wish my father were as your cousin.”

            “How do ye mean?”

            “I mean that I wish he were more light-hearted, and would not actively try to guilt me for being with you. The things he s-said tonight…he used it as a weapon, Bofur. He took something that’s made me inordinately happy and sliced at me with it, made me feel as though it was something to be ashamed of.”

            He chanced a glance at Bofur then, and never had he felt more regretful – Bofur looked shattered, stunned.

            “But…why?” Uncertainty, laced with hurt, colored his voice as he unconsciously leaned away from Bilbo. “What have I done, t’make him bear me such ill will?”

            “You haven’t.” He took Bofur’s face in his hands, his voice gone fiercely protective. “You’ve done nothing but be wonderful to me, _for_ me. You are not the problem, and I won’t have you thinking such ridiculous thoughts. This isn’t – our fight did not start because of you.”

            “What then?” Bofur had not shied away from his touch, but he hadn’t leaned into it as he usually did. It was that inaction, more than anything, that made Bilbo desperate to right things.

            “He’s been ill, and hiding it.” It hurt to say it aloud, but Bofur deserved to know that he wasn’t the problem. He was so far from being the problem. “That night that we met up to discuss the very first chapter of my book, at the pub? That was the night I first really noticed something was amiss, and I confronted him about it. He wouldn’t listen. Ignored me right off at first, and then when I pressed him about it he told me to mind my own business.

            “I forgot about it for a little while, to be honest, because not two days after that was when you kissed me for the first time.” A small, watery smile peeked through his otherwise downturned lips. “And that was just so lovely that I stopped thinking about much else, really. I was so caught up in what we’d discovered in each other that I forgot that I have other parts of my life that need tending, most noticeably my job, and we work in the same office. My father takes his work very seriously and is all about keeping up one’s reputation through work, and I was always told I would follow in his footsteps, that I would carry on his good reputation.”

            “Ye got distracted at work same as I did, then?”

            “Oh, yes.” His face crumpled again. “Not that I ever was bothered by that; unlike you I don’t have any affection for my job. It doesn’t suit me and never really did. What I really want, more than anything, is to quit and write full-time, until I’m old and grey and can’t write anymore.” He shut his mouth suddenly and looked shy. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”

            “So yer book’s not just a fun project on th’ side, then. It’s the beginning of a dream you’ve kept hidden away fer a long time.” Bofur squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder reassuringly. “No wonder ye were so shy about it at first.”

            “Yes, exactly. And Father doesn’t know about that; Frodo’s the only one of my family that knows I even write for fun, and even then I haven’t told him that I desire it as a means to make my living. He’s just excited for me to have some new story to tell him.”

            “Sure and he’s got one of th’ most active imaginations I’ve seen.”

            “He’s wonderful,” Bilbo said quietly. “He’s so clever in his way, and so creative. And he’s got this incredible brightness in him; you’d never know he’d lost his parents.”

            “He lost his parents?” His voice now filled with concern, he tipped Bilbo’s chin up again. “When?”

            “Two years ago. He was five, and devastated of course. I took him in.” Bilbo’s eyes were clouded now with memories. “He hardly said a word for nearly four months after the accident, but I got him out of his shell. I just spent time with him every day, the pair of us, sometimes talking or reading to him, or just holding him when he cried. Then one morning, he crawled into bed with me, took my hand and whispered ‘I love you’ right in my ear.”

            “Somethin’ so beautiful shouldn’t have you lookin’ as sad as ye do.” Bofur’s eyes had gone damp, and Bilbo knew he was remembering losing his own parents. “What is it, Bilbo?”

            “That’s the other thing Father said to me. When I called him out on hiding his illness from us, he got defensive. Said I was ‘all but a ghost in this house’, implying that I was not taking enough time to care for Frodo as I should be. That I’m a bad uncle for taking time for myself to write, though he doesn’t know that that’s what I’m doing when I’m in my office at home.”

            “He has no right to say such things.” Bofur’s voice all but whipped through the air, had Bilbo starting in his seat. When he turned to face his friend, there was a wealth of pain on his face and his jaw was rock-hard. “I’ve seen ye with the laddie, how gentle y’are with him and how sweet. I’ve seen th’ way ye speak of him with such love, and how ye worry when ye think ye’ve spent too much time away. Ye took him in when he’d lost everythin and gave him everythin’ you could, and still yer father asks for more? Tha’s ridiculous. Does he not know how much ye’ve given already, how much it means to a child t’have someone t’protect him after such a trauma?”

            “Bofur.” Bilbo breathed the word, reached up to touch the other’s cheek. It was a strange sight indeed to see one usually so easy in manner looking ready to fly apart at the seams. “I had no idea.”

            He huffed out a hard breath. “Sorry. I just – when I remember wha’ that time was like, an’ how hard it was fer Bifur to take me an’ Bombur in, an’ t’think of people not understandin’ how much effort he made to be sure we were happy an’ healthy, I just…” His eyes fell shut. “It makes me bloody furious is what it does. So if I’ve said anything that offends yer father, I am sorry but I won’t take it back.”

            “I wouldn’t ask you to.” He slipped his arm around Bofur’s shoulders now. “Keep in mind I’m not exactly thrilled with my father either at present.”

            Bofur heaved a sigh. “What are ye going t’do? About yer father, I mean?”

            “I’ll prove him wrong. I’m going to make him see that I can have my own life and still tend to my duties at home and work both. And – and I –” He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m going to try what you did with Bifur, and humor him for a little while. Which means I won’t see you for a few days, a week at most.” He opened his eyes, winced at the expression on Bofur’s face. “I don’t like it any more than you do, I really don’t. But if he’s going to come around, he needs time and I intend to do what I can to fix things.”

            “Even after he was so harsh?”

            “Even after that.” He suddenly felt years older, and every fiber of him ached. “When he was saying those things about Frodo, I reminded him that I spend time with my nephew every day. And he told me to enjoy it while I could, because when Frodo’s grown he might not have time for me. He looked right at me when he said that, and I swear I’ve never seen him look so sad. He may have been unnecessarily curt but I don’t want Frodo and I to turn into the stilted mess of a relationship that I now have with my father. He’s ill, and whatever hardness there is now between us I’m going to fix up before it’s too late.”

            Bofur nodded. “I understand.” He let Bilbo take his hands, and when Bilbo gently kissed him he returned it with everything he was.

            “I wish you all the luck in the world,” he whispered as they separated. A sad smile turned up his lips. “I really do.”

            Bilbo nodded then tugged him close again, pouring everything he hadn’t said into the embrace.

            Well, almost everything.

            “I love you,” he blurted. Bofur went absolutely still, and Bilbo hugged him all the harder. “I love you, Bofur.”

            Then Bofur was kissing him, kissing him with such intensity that Bilbo utterly lost his breath. It was hard and soft and hurting and bursting with joy all at once, and they reeled with the punch of power in it.

            “Me…me too. I love you, Bilbo.” His breath was hot against Bilbo’s lips, and where he’d been trembling before he was now steady as a mountain. “I love you.” He exhaled, and made himself step away.

            “I’ll see ye soon?”

            “You can bet on it.” Bilbo gave him a smile then, much like the one he’d given Frodo earlier, and felt his heart settle when Bofur’s eyes cleared. Turning away to walk out the door was one of the harder things he’d had to do of late, but he’d manage.

            He was going to make things right. He was going to get Bofur back as soon as he could. He was going to talk to his father, find out exactly what was going on and make his amends.

            He was going to finish his book, and give Frodo the best read he’d ever had.


	13. Chapter 13

“Would you mind explaining this?”

            “Explaining what?”

            “This letter. What’s this boy playing at?”

            Bilbo felt his brows all but disappear into his hairline as Bungo handed him the neat piece of notebook paper covered with all-too familiar handwriting – he had, hidden in a box at the very back of his closet, all the chapters of his book that Bofur had edited. He’d looked over the ever-expanding stack of papers again and again, intently perusing the thin, spiky writing. And now his father was handing him a letter covered in that very same hand.

           

_To Mister Baggins –_

_Sure and you’ve probably heard your son mention me at least once if not a hundred times, as we’re rather hopelessly enamored of one another. Harken perhaps back to high school and all the bewildering if exciting hormonal imbalances therein and you’ll know well what I mean._

_I’m going to cut right to the point; as Bilbo can tell you I’ve never really been much for avoiding it (excepting of course when he’s pressed me about my life, but my recalcitrance was nothing a good brownie and a heap of sexual tension couldn’t cure). He tells me you’re upset with the fact of our involvement, that it keeps him distracted at work and closeted all hours at home, no doubt sighing and looking morosely out the window and texting me when he shouldn’t. Am I right?_

_I can understand that, I really can. No, don’t give me that look – not long after Bilbo started showing up regular at my café, I was getting distracted too and me cousin took note and scolded me most righteously, much as I imagine you scolded your son. Things have since quieted as I’m getting used to feeling these things, but it does take a bit of time to get used to feeling this way and I’ve a keen suspicion that Bilbo came to the realization of things rather later than I did. And if you see this, sunshine, know that I say that in all love._

_And there lies the crux of the matter – I love your son._

_You may not like that I love your son. You may not approve. You may worry that me loving him (and him loving me, as he most assuredly does) will take him away from you. I’ve no children of me own so I can’t say your fear ain’t justified, ’cause I’ve honestly no idea if it is. All I can say in my defense is that I’ve no intention to whisk him away from his family, and that I would never dream of asking him to choose me over you. I just want him to be happy, and only hope that I can be a part of his happiness._

_But understand me when I say this: your discontent with our relationship will never stop me from loving Bilbo. He’s a wonderfully kind, intelligent, creative man and suffice to say my heart’s been lost to him for some time now. I can’t fall out of love simply because it would make you more comfortable, and that is something I won’t apologize for. I am sorry that you’ve been made to feel abandoned, because I know from experience that it’s a horrible feeling._

_That said, if you’re wanting to discuss this further, come by my shop and we’ll have us a chat, just the two of us. If you never want to see or hear from me again, well, I can’t change that just by asking you to understand. Whatever your feeling, whatever your choices, I hope we won’t remain at odds with one another._

_Yours, Bofur._

 

            Bilbo read the thing twice in rapid succession, the initial shock at Bofur’s brashness fading to a deep fondness at the fact that he’d taken time to write Bilbo’s father and explain things, all whilst accepting that Bungo was angry with him. He felt a bittersweet love rise up in him then – Bofur was not only acknowledging Bungo’s low opinion of him, but accepting it and saying that yes, he was deserving of such contempt. And yet in the same way he’d made the truth of his feelings abundantly clear without pretense or apology.

            Nervously he glanced toward his father, who was wearing a mildly irritated expression. But there was a flicker of uncertainty behind his eyes, and it stirred a spark of hope in Bilbo.

            “I don’t know what you want me to say.” He stroked his fingers over the letter before handing it back to Bungo. “He’s made himself clear enough, in my opinion.”

            “Yes, but what does he _mean_ by it?”

            “I daresay he wanted you to know that he knew of the trickiness of the situation, and to tell you how he feels about it.”

            “Hmph. He’s ever so forthright.”

            “That’s just his way, Father. He likes speaking his mind.” A small smile played about his lips before he could quash it, and when his father raised a brow at him he flushed deeply. “What? It’s one of the things I like about him.”

            “He says you love him.” Bungo was quieter now, and his gaze was so piercing that Bilbo might have thought he was trying to read his mind for the answer. “And that he loves you back.”

            “I do. He does.”

            “Why?”

            “Does it matter?” Despite the sinking in his heart, Bilbo steeled himself to meet his father’s eyes. “I don’t know how it happened, but is that not the way of these things? I met him, we got to chatting a time or two over the course of weeks, spending time together as friends will, and the next thing I knew – well, I got to realize that I look forward to seeing him, I think about him quite frequently, and I’m always wanting to tell him about the most inconsequential parts of my day because I think they might make him smile, or because I’m curious as to his opinion. He has the most amazing smile, all teeth and shining eyes. Then he’ll laugh this huge laugh and it warms me in a way nothing else does, Father, and I won’t give that up. I love him and as he said, I can’t change that because you wish it so.”

            “I never asked you not to love him,” Bungo said quickly.

            “Then why the animosity? Why do you think so poorly of him? He’s done nothing wrong and nothing to hurt you.”

            “It’s as he said. He’s taken – because you’re always spending time with him, I feel like he’s taken you away from me.” He sighed, and his hand twitched before awkwardly laying it upon Bilbo’s shoulder. “I regret not spending time with you when you were younger and growing, as you do with Frodo now. And now you’re grown, and gone all the time, and it isn’t fair to me, or your mother or Frodo.”

            “But I _am_ grown. I deserve to have my own life.”

            “Did I say otherwise?”

            “You’re implying it fairly heavily.” He could feel a headache beginning to brew between his eyes. “Look, I know I haven’t been my best at work, but while I’m in my office at home isn’t because of Bofur. That’s just me w- ah, that’s just me having some time to myself.”

            “You have a duty to your family.”

            “And a duty to myself as well, or how else am I to stay happy and healthy? Actually, that’s something I’ve been meaning to ask of you.” He breathed in deep once, twice before laying his hand on his father’s. “Why do you never take time for yourself? You’re not as young as you once were, Father. And you are allowed to have off days.”

            “I can’t afford to have off days.” He took his hand away.

            “Bofur said the same thing once, until I convinced him otherwise.”

            “Does he support his family as you and I do?”

            “Yes, actually. He and his brother and his cousin are all each other has, and so they all support each other. They also aren’t afraid to lean on one another.” Not to be deterred, frustration warring with the love that painfully tightened his chest, he took Bungo’s hand again. “It is not a crime to need help, nor is it wrong to ask for help should you need it. I know you don’t like being ill, and that to you it’s some sort of shameful thing to admit out loud, but you’re only human. It happens, then you rest and get better and go on!”

            He had to pause a moment, emotion beginning to stop up his throat. He just wanted to be happy, and for the people he loved to be happy. He wanted, in a way, for things to be as they were when his father was well and things were uncomplicated and nothing unexpected ever happened. Then he thought of Bofur, of the past six weeks, and of the adventure of sorts that they’d shared together and were still experiencing. He wouldn’t trade that for anything.

            “Father,” he began again. “Father, I know you’re upset with me as well. I know you feel like I don’t spend enough time here, or do my best at work. I won’t argue with the latter certainly, but I don’t like being a landscaper. I never have and I rather doubt I ever shall. That doesn’t mean I won’t do what needs doing, but I am unhappy with my job. I’m not like you.

            “That being said, there’s – you see, the reason I’ve –” He was fumbling now, every nerve in his body tight with fear.

            “What is it, Bilbo?”

            _It’s time. You have to tell him. You don’t know that he won’t understand. You said yourself you wanted to fix things, and what better place to start than with honesty?_

_Please, please don’t hate me for this._

            “I’ve been writing a book,” he burst out, words tumbling over each other in a rush. “I’ve been writing it for a while now and, and, and it’s made me happier than anything, and Bofur’s been editing for me, and Frodo wants me to read it to him when it’s done, and th-that’s where I’ve been when I’m at home. Writing. In my office. Writing my book in my office. That’s why I’ve been so busy and you haven’t s-seen me much.”

            The words seemed to ring like bells in the suddenly loud silence, clanging along to the timpani hammering of his heart against his ribs. There was no turning back now. It was time to face the music, be it symphony or cacophony.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “I won’t make any apologies for writing, nor will I – what?”

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” Bungo repeated, looking for all the world like he was experiencing an acute sense of anticlimax.

            Bilbo, once he realized his jaw was hanging clear to the floor, hastily shut it and fixed his father with a disbelieving, wary stare as his mind went haywire.

            “Well,” he stalled, trying (and failing) to come up with at least a mildly intelligent reply. “Why do you think I didn’t tell you?”

            “What? I don’t know. That’s why I was asking, m’boy.”

            “Ah. Yes, of course.” Oh dear, this was not going to be at all easy. Then again, he’d already put his foot in it so he may as well keep on going. “I suppose you might say that I, ah…I assumed you would be rather less than pleased. Given how it’s essentially what led me to discover Bofur’s coffee shop, which in turn led to our involvement with one another, which by its own consequence means that I’m off my form at work, and writing all the while at home, and often away because I’m seeing him for editing and the like.”

            “Ah.” A frown puckered his father’s brow. “Well, in that case I must say –”

            “Uncle Bilbo, I’m hooooome!”

            “In the living room, lad,” he called back. Then Frodo was there, all smiles, brandishing a large piece of construction paper.

            “Look what I made, Uncle!” Backpack dropped unceremoniously to the floor, he all but shoved the thing into Bilbo’s hands. “It’s the dragon in your story you told me about! And see, here’s all his treasure an’ stuff, and some skeletons ’cause he prob’ly eats people, and he’s smiling ’cause he’s bad but doesn’t care.” Little face shining, he eagerly peered first at Bilbo and back to the large, sweeping crayon-strokes of bold red and orange and too-bright yellow for the gold upon which the dragon sat. “That’s a skeleton,” he added, pointing to a black stick-figure with an ‘X’ for each eye. “Do...d’you like it?”

            The dragon itself was comprised of a large, oval body, curved neck and oversized head that was grinning up at him with too-large teeth. The tail of the beast was nearly as long as the rest of its body, and curved in several corkscrew twists all along the borders of the picture. Only a few of the treasure pieces were done in detail (a goblet here, an axe there), and the rest were simply hastily scrawled yellow circles with a thick black outline to distinguish one from another. Three separate skeletons sat around the place, and the top of the picture was all black and very waxy, given the ferocity of Frodo’s coloring efforts.

            “I love it,” he breathed. All the stress that had building in him ever since the fight with his father began to slip away, a sense of sweet mollification and childlike glee welling in its place. “It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen, Frodo. I’m going to hang this above the desk in my office.” He stooped down to scoop his nephew off his feet, hugged the boy hard to him. “Thank you so much for drawing this for me!”

            Frodo was smiling fit to burst, and he threw his arms about Bilbo’s neck and laughed and laughed. “Yay! It took me forever, y’know.”

            “It shows, my lad. You did very well.”

            “How ’bout you, Papa Bungo?” Frodo tugged the thing from Bilbo’s grip, brandished it excitedly at his grandfather. “D’you like it too?”

            Bungo shifted a bit, lips pursing as he took the paper from Frodo’s hand. Bilbo sent him a warning glance, hand going to squeeze his nephew’s shoulders in a protective, supportive gesture.

            “Y…yes. Yes, I like it.” Bungo’s frown may have cleared with all the speed of a glacier, but he did muster up a smile for Frodo. “I like the colors.”

            Frodo visibly preened under the praise, little chest puffing with evident pride.

            “Frodo, my lad, why don’t you go and put your backpack away in your room? I’ll hold onto your picture here and we’ll hang it up in a little while.”  As he bounded away, Bilbo took the paper from his father’s unresisting hand.

            He opened his mouth to speak but Bungo raised a hand to forestall him, his expression conflicted and not entirely readable.

            After a moment he lowered his hand, fixed his son with an odd look.

            “What’s the address of this café?”


	14. Chapter 14

As Bilbo was simultaneously internally celebrating the fact that his father had at least agreed to talk with Bofur, as well as fretting over the possible outcomes, Bofur himself was going about his business as usual. Or so it would seem, at a casual glance.

            If one were to look closer, they might notice the ever-constant tapping of a foot or finger. The regular, insistent transference of his phone from pocket to hand and back again might also be of interest. Distant eyes flicked to the door every time it opened, the faint shine of hope in them fading every time Bilbo did not enter. Then Bofur’s brows would knit together, just for a moment, before his signature smile of welcome slotted neatly back into place for the customer. He would make small talk, take their order and be the very picture of someone content with his lot in life. Then they would leave the register, and the cycle would start again.

            It had been nine days and he’d seen neither hide nor hair of Bilbo, save the few times he’d dreamt about him. Granted he’d got a text here and there, and had read over each of them more times than he could count. Where was he?

            “Pardon me, young man? I’m looking for Bofur.” Bungo’s eyes widened as the man looked up from the phone clutched in his hand, and tensed like he was about to bolt for the hills. Then the moment passed, the phone was slipped back into a jeans pocket and the man straightened to aim a full-wattage smile at him.

            “It was good of ye to come, Mister Baggins.” He hesitated, then relaxed into his customary, hip-shot slouch and stuck out a hand. “Bofur, at yer service.”

 

 

Bilbo: Father’s coming to speak to you.  
Bilbo: Let me know how it goes?

  
Resisting the urge to glare at his phone until it gave him a reply, Bilbo set the thing aside and turned instead to his brightly glowing laptop screen. The words _The Last Stage_ stared back at him.

            The last chapter. The End. He’d written this thing in an absolute whirlwind of thought, of half-formed ideas and a host of what-ifs, and now he’d come to the end of it. The end of the journey.

            Granted, the whole thing was very much in the rough stages yet, and still being edited of course. He hadn’t let himself tell Bofur about these last few chapters being done, not even e-mailing them to his friend for feedback due to his determination to patch things up with his father first. Although, for the first few days he’d (guiltily) refrained from even trying to talk to his father, instead (especially guiltily) locking himself in his office and just writing as much as he could, as fast as he could. Not so much for the story’s sake, though he was starting to tie together all the little arcs and bring things to some sort of conclusion. No, it was more an exercise in settling his frayed nerves, in just letting every warring emotion inside him come pouring out onto the page in a roaring cascade.

            And really, it had been quite cathartic. He’d kept up his breakneck pace for nearly three days, until he’d literally no more words come to mind. But now, now that’d he’d spoken to his father, said his piece and admitted to this venture – well, he may as well finish things. The words were coming back to him, and he was going to do right by them.

            He set his fingers to the keyboard, and felt a small smile creep onto his face. It was nice, in a way he hadn’t expected. Having all these people know of this project, having two of the three of them cheering him on as he went. Certainly he’d never thought to share this with anyone besides himself when he’d begun, but it was nice. Having people to write for, to share this thing with that he was so excited about, made him want to tell the story all the more and thereby, he thought, made him a better storyteller.

            He began to type, letting the familiar rhythm of it soothe his mind as he fell back into the steady flow of things. _This_ was what he wanted to be doing for the rest of his life. The frenzied, exciting, unadulterated sense of creation was what he craved, what set his mind afire. Perhaps he may even try to get it published one day, and make his long-deferred dream a reality.

            He’d just typed the very last word of the very last sentence and had sat back to let the sensation of being finished wash over him, when he heard the front door open. Bungo was back.

            Eagerly he glanced at his phone, and indeed there was a text waiting for him.

 

Bofur: Come and see.

 

            What? Did he want Bilbo to come to the café? Perhaps he wanted to talk with him about what had happened in private, now that Bungo had left. Nodding to himself, Bilbo quickly slipped the phone into his pocket, unlocked his office door and headed to the front room to find his keys and coat.

            When he came down the hall and saw Bofur standing next to his father, chatting amicably with Frodo (he had out his race-cars and was pushing them around the carpet with happy ‘whoosh’ noises), he stopped dead in his tracks. Some still-rational portion of his brain told him to pick his jaw up off the floor before he made a mess, but the burst of joyful confusion rendered him speechless and left his mouth still very much open.

            “Bofur?”

            “ ’ello, sunshine.” Eyes lighting up, Bofur’s face split into an enormous smile and he nearly made to move forward, but stopped himself at the last moment. “Surprise.”

            “I don’t – Father? Whatever’s going on?”

            Bungo and Bofur shared a look, causing Bilbo’s eyes to bug out all the more. “We’ve had a chat, your lad and I,” his father said after a moment. He looked very odd, Bilbo thought, at ease and yet a little frown was trying to crease his brow, though he was nearly smiling. “I’ll let him tell you about it. I’m going to take Frodo to the park, then he and your mother and I are going out to dinner. I daresay we’ll be back in a few hours or so. I expect you’ll have finished telling him all he needs to know by then,” he said to Bofur, a bit of his sternness coming back.

            Bofur touched his cap in response, inclined his head. “Of course, Mister Baggins. And thank you.”

            “Come along now, Frodo,” he said, suddenly all business. “We’re going out.” As he bustled the child away Bilbo simply stood rooted to the spot, mind reeling. Once the front door had closed, Bofur cocked his head to the side and his smile faded a little.

            “What’s wrong, Bilbo?”

            “How?” Bilbo stared hard at him, trying to understand. “How on earth did you convince my father to be alright with this? With us?”

            “T’make a long story short, I can tell ye the rest of it later, he said he din’t want me to take ye away from him so I suggested he bring me here instead. So’s he could still have ye, an’ still let us have each other.”

            “What?” Bilbo’s lips twitched in spite of himself. “You didn’t!”

            “I’m here now, ain’t I?” Bofur shot him a wicked grin. “Seemed like a good idea at th’ time.”

            Laughter bubbled up in Bilbo’s throat, and then he flung his arms around his friend. Bofur was here, really here, Bungo may not have given his full approval to his face but he was leaving them alone together, wasn’t he? That was good enough for Bilbo.

            “Only you, my friend. Only you would think to be so forward.”

            “I’m told it’s one of my finer qualities.” Sighing with relief, with contentment, Bofur hugged him hard and brushed his lips over Bilbo’s hair. “I’ve missed you so much.”

            “And I you.” The words were shy, but something inside Bilbo felt very bold just then as he pulled away, took Bofur’s hand and led him into his bedroom.

            He shut the door, turned to face Bofur and felt a flush rise up in his cheeks at the amused glance on his face.

            “What?”

            “Whatever are ye planning, I don’t wonder?”

            “Why don’t we sit?” he began, heart starting to hammer as they moved to lower themselves next to each other on his bed. While he knew well this would not in any way be his only chance at this, the sheer thrill at having Bofur back again was spurring him to action. “I want to – you see –”

            “Yer redder than a sunburned beet, luv,” he teased. “Spit it out now, there’s a lad.”

            Bilbo bit his lower lip, then tugged Bofur forward and whispered quickly into his ear.

            “Oho, is that right?” Eyes gleaming, Bofur’s lips split into the sauciest, most unrepentant grin Bilbo had ever seen. “Can I claim rights t’that turn of phrase? It’s ever so eloquent, ’specially tha’ bit about –”

            “Shh!” Heart tripping giddily over itself, Bilbo shot his hands forward to tickle over Bofur’s ribs; soon enough the other’s words were cut off by giggling yelps.

            “Ach, nooo!” Falling backwards onto the mattress, trying to get away, Bofur’s desperate peals of laughter echoed off the walls of the room. “I meant nothin’ by it, I swear I didn’t – get yer hands off’f me, ye scalliwag!”

            “Never shall I, neither!” Unable to stop laughing himself, Bilbo tussled to stay in control, on impulse getting into position to use his weight to keep Bofur down.

            And then he was straddling Bofur’s hips, the sudden, pressing contact causing them both to freeze, breath shallow from their shared mirth.

            Bilbo swallowed, eyes flicking down to where his hands sat low on the other’s stomach, his wrists held in a steely grip. Then, struck by sudden inspiration, he cocked his head to the side and let his eyes fill with heat.

            “Well, if you’re wanting me to get my hands off of you, I’m sure that can be arranged.” His voice was lofty, bored. “Since they obviously cause you such discomfort, and no…” he licked his lips, “ah, _pleasure_ to speak of.” He shrugged, made to move away, and felt triumph flood through him as he suddenly was flipped onto his back, wrists now held at the sides of his head.

            “Oh no, ye don’t.” Bofur’s eyes were gleaming darkly, and his smile had gotten impossibly wider. “Ye made yer wishes quite clear, sunshine, and now I’m goin’ t’tell ye mine.”

            Bilbo felt his eyes flutter shut as Bofur leaned down to whisper, his teeth just barely scraping over the shell of his ear. But it was his words that had Bilbo wanting to arch upwards, had him fighting not to moan aloud.

            “It’s yer choice, Bilbo. It always has been.” He drew back, and though his eyes still blazed there was a measure of hesitancy there now. “We won’t do anythin’ yer not ready for.” He let go of Bilbo’s wrists as he spoke, let the hands instead come up to touch his face.

            “I want to.” Bilbo thought absentmindedly that his words were rather unnervingly loud in the suddenly immense silence that permeated the room, but he didn’t mind. “I want you.”

            Bofur had been holding himself above Bilbo, legs braced on either side of the younger and hands on either side of Bilbo’s head. At his friend’s words, his gaze sharpened and he lowered himself so that every inch of them was touching, and the both of them inhaled sharply at the sudden, nearly overwhelming contact.

            _“Bofur,”_ Bilbo breathed. His arms came around the other without him having to think. Bofur buried his head into Bilbo’s neck in response, breath catching as his lips brushed over the bounding pulse there.

            “I…I haven’t done this in a while,” he admitted softly.

            “Do – do you want to?” Bilbo was sure he did, if Bofur’s actions were any indication. “If you don’t want to, I mean, that’s fine, we don’t have to just now.”

            Bofur let out a strained chuckle, raised his head up to meet Bilbo’s gorgeous, deep brown eyes. “There’s nothin’ on this good earth that could make me _not_ want this. And din’t I tell ye what I wanted just a moment ago?”

            “Well yes, but I need to be sure.”

            “Be sure, Bilbo.” Bofur traced a thumb over the younger’s bottom lip, and his smile, his eyes were full of love. “Every word I spoke was truth. I want this every bit as much as ye do.”

            “Well then,” Bilbo murmured, skating his hands down Bofur’s spine, thrilled at the way he hummed at his touch. His tone grew lightly teasing. “Kiss me and prove it. Touch me, Bofur.”

            Bofur needed no further invitation. He crushed his mouth to Bilbo’s, pressed him into the bed with the weight of it. Let his hands wander down to grip the younger’s hips, tilting them against his own. The action wrested a deep groan from Bilbo as the stiffness in his trousers met that of Bofur’s, a delicious promise of what was to come.

            Bofur’s hands suddenly wormed themselves in between their bodies, fumbling with the buttons on Bilbo’s shirt. Bilbo rolled them so that he sat atop the other, disengaging Bofur’s hands and quickly divesting himself of the restrictive fabric while Bofur yanked his own shirt off.

            Bofur brought up his hands then, let his nails drag ever so lightly over Bilbo’s skin. Bilbo struggled to stay upright, breath coming in short, hard pants. One of his legs slipped, and his thigh pressed hard against Bofur’s groin as he tensed with pleasure, and then Bofur was moaning and it was the most beautiful thing Bilbo had ever heard.

            “Hnn…tha’s it luv; right there –” He gasped as Bilbo pushed harder, rubbing in little circles. In awe, Bilbo leaned down and shyly licked at the hollow of Bofur’s throat as he pushed and pressed, and was rewarded by Bofur’s fingers shooting back down to his hips to pull him closer, making him hiss at the sweet friction of it.

            Their trousers were next, hastily and hurriedly unbuckled, pulled off and tossed away. Bilbo felt his pulse nearly double at the sight of Bofur sprawled naked and with his chest heaving, in the center of his bed. He was rock-hard, and Bilbo felt his own erection stiffen at the sight, at knowing that his was his, only his. Something on his face must have shown it, for Bofur huffed out a breathless laugh.

            “Like what ye see?” he teased. Bilbo might have responded in kind, were it not for the subtly uncertain tremor in Bofur’s voice. Just on the edge of hearing, but there nonetheless.

            Instead he knelt between Bofur’s spread thighs, took his face in hand and brushed a lingering kiss to his forehead. Then he placed a hand over Bofur’s hammering heart, and locked their gazes together.

            “I love what I see. Both within and without.” Everything inside him was soaring with the truth of it. “There’s, um, lubricant and things in the bedside drawer.”

            Bofur’s breath caught, before reaching into the nightstand and retrieving what they needed. “Have I ever told ye how precious y’are when yer nervous?”

            Bilbo simply smiled and pulled him close. “Shut up and touch me more, please.”

            “And ever so polite,” he whispered against Bilbo’s lips, then he took his length in hand with a long, slow stroke.

            “Oh God.” Head falling back, exposing his throat, his hands went to the other’s shoulders as a shaking sigh poured from his lips. “ _Mm,_ just like that.” Bofur’s hand was strong and warm and oh so skilled. Perfect in his pressure, thrilling in his rhythm, he worked Bilbo until the younger man was nearly whimpering, forehead pressed firm against Bofur’s collarbone. He began nibbling Bilbo’s ears as well, and had Bilbo convulsing hard against him from the dual onslaught of sensation.

            Then Bilbo was batting his hands away, pushing Bofur until he fell hard against the bed, and his hands were everywhere. He squeezed and stroked, touched and caressed every inch of Bofur’s skin he could get his hands on, kissing him deep and hungry. Fumbling for the lubricant, he popped the cap and coated his fingers. Slid off and wordlessly coaxed Bofur onto his side, before bringing his forefinger to trace over Bofur’s perineum, circle over his entrance.

            Bofur gulped for air as Bilbo’s finger teased the ring of muscle, his own hands fisting in the soft sheets. Bilbo mouthed along the base of his neck, ghosting his breath over the marks he left, and when he slid his first finger inside Bofur let out a mewling cry.

            “Uhn, Bilbo – ” He scrabbled for the hand at his waist, threaded his fingers with Bilbo’s and squeezed hard. “Th-that feels, it’s amazing – ah!” Bilbo’s finger had twisted, the pad of it brushing over a spot that had the other seeing stars.

            Gut tightening at the gorgeous noises falling in a steady stream from Bofur’s lips, Bilbo slipped in his second finger, his pace growing slower, fuller, more torturous. He whispered soft words against Bofur’s skin as he scissored him wide, telling him that he loved him and how beautiful he was and how wonderful.

            The moment Bilbo withdrew his fingers, positively shaking with raw want as he rolled on a condom and slicked himself over, Bofur rolled onto his stomach, facing away, and braced himself on his forearms. “I’m ready, Bilbo,” he said.

            “No.” The word burst from him, had Bofur turning back to him with features crumpled in confusion. “I want – I just –” Struggling to breathe, to think through the fire singing in his veins, he cupped Bofur’s cheeks and rested their foreheads together. “I want to _see_ you; I need to see you while…you know. I want to see your face, and your eyes, and everything, Bofur.” He kissed the other with a fierce tenderness, and when he drew away felt his heart stutter at the look on his friend’s face.

            “Aye,” he murmured after a moment. “Aye, you’ll see me. ’m right here, sunshine.” He lay back against the pillows, chuckling at Bilbo’s eagerness to follow him down. “Sure and yer an insistent one; if I’d known before I might’ve h-had a harder time containing meself when ye came around.”

            Bilbo simply smiled and kissed him wordless (though not by any means quiet), before reaching for a spare pillow to wedge under Bofur’s hips and spreading his legs just a little farther apart. And when he lined himself up and began to press inside, Bofur let out a shuddering, stuttering moan that nearly had the last of Bilbo’s control snapping right then and there. Bofur’s hands clenched at his shoulders, his head tipped back and his eyes fell shut, and after a moment his legs wrapped themselves around Bilbo’s waist to draw him deeper.

            Bilbo stilled once he’d bottomed out, caressing the other’s face and feathering hot little kisses over any bit of him he could reach as his stomach fluttered and clenched. Bofur was so tight, so impossibly hot around him, but he wanted Bofur to be fully adjusted to him before they kept on.

            “Are – are you – can I –” Groaning, trembling, he silently urged Bofur to look at him. The other’s eyes were blown wide and dark, and no sooner had he opened them than he pulled Bilbo down for a rough meeting of lips and tongues, all promise and desperate need.

            “Yes,” he whispered. “Please, yes, _move_ –” He broke off then, for Bilbo had suddenly withdrawn only to thrust hard back into him, leaning down to pant against his neck.

            It was incredible, having that vice-like inferno drawing him in as he fluidly worked his hips, sliding in and out of Bofur’s body, again and again, building the fire, stoking their desire. Piercing him, holding him, loving him.

            Bofur was writhing beneath him, mouth gone slack and clutching ever tighter at Bilbo’s body, relishing the slick, gloriously full slide of him, of their sweat-damp skin pressing into each other, around each other. Their breath intermingled, harsh and hard and ever-quickening as they surged together.

            Then Bilbo’s hips were positively snapping into his body, faster, deeper, _more_. Bofur’s cries were high and wild now, hands firm over Bilbo’s arse and his body rising to meet him thrust for desperate thrust.  Bilbo paused only long enough to hoist Bofur’s legs over his shoulders, slide his arms under Bofur’s back, and suck hard at his neck as he resumed his long, strong thrusts. He was all but crooning Bofur’s name now, tension coiling tighter and tighter low in his belly. It was so hot, so _good_ – “I love you, I love you, Bofur, _God!”_

            Bofur bucked beneath him as Bilbo’s thrusts suddenly pressed over his prostate, relentless, endless, beautifully agonizing. Everything was white and sharp-edged and _yes_ and _harder,_ and when his orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave he nearly screamed with the intensity.

            Everything clenched, clamped down around Bilbo as Bofur spurted over their stomachs, and Bilbo knew he was right at the tipping point.

            “Bofur,” he gasped. “Bofur, look at me.”

            And when those eyes, those depthless green eyes flew open to pierce him through, Bilbo let go. He stilled within his lover, pulsing for what seemed an infinite moment before collapsing atop the other, the aftershocks of their pleasure coursing through them both. He was floating, brimming with bliss and completion.

            After they’d separated, cleaned off and snuggled for a fair bit, Bofur gathered Bilbo to him in an overwhelmingly tender embrace.

            “I love you.” Breathing deeper, steadier now, he swayed as words grew thick with emotion. “I can’t even tell ye how much I love you.”

            Bilbo pillowed his head into Bofur’s broad chest, sighing happily. “You could try,” he said sweetly, causing the other’s chest to vibrate with a rumbling chuckle.

            “Aye, that I can.” The sound of a door opening made the both of them jump, and Bilbo was infinitely grateful that they’d already gotten their clothes back on. “But that’ll ’ave to wait, it seems.”

            “No matter.” Straightening his slightly wrinkled shirt, Bilbo took Bofur’s hand and opened the bedroom door. “Let’s go find out what happens next, eh?”

            “So long as ye’re with me, sunshine, whatever happens next’ll be wonderful.”

            “Indeed.” Smiling, heart singing, they slid their arms about each other’s waists, and went to discover the next chapter of their story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for an extra-long chapter!  
> Epilogue to be posted as soon as I get it written ^_^


	15. Chapter 15

_Epilogue  
Two years later_

 

“Bilbo? Where are ye, sunshine?” He’d been here just a moment ago, sitting comfortably at the table, muttering over the crossword and absentmindedly twirling a lock of Bofur’s dark hair as the other had leaned into him. Then Bofur had gotten up to check on Frodo (still safely ensconced in his bedroom, newspaper littering the floor and paint over half his t-shirt), only to come back and discover a husband-shaped hole in the air where Bilbo had been.

            Shrugging, he took a healthy gulp of Bilbo’s tea. No sooner had he set the cup back in its saucer than a most interesting kind of muffled, disbelieving yelp sounded from the front hall. Lips quirking, brow raised, he sauntered out of the dining room and towards the foyer.

            Bilbo was standing with his back to him, fingers trembling as he clutched at a small sheaf of paper. The torn manila envelope it had been in was lying forgotten on the floor, and Bilbo looked for all the world like he might faint at any moment.

            “Y’alright, luv? Ye’re lookin’ very peaky.”

            “Ngk.” Swallowing hard, blinking harder, Bilbo peered closely at the top sheet and the neat type there. “It’s – it’s actually –”

            “What? Honestly, it’s as though ye’ve been told ye’re to be knighted.” Stepping up behind him and slipping his arms neatly about the other’s waist, he peered over Bilbo’s trembling shoulders.

            One heartbeat passed, then two, three, four more. The both of them were utterly at a loss for words for a moment, but Bofur recovered first.

            “Oh. _Oh_. No wonder ye sounded like a baby pterodactyl bein’ trod on!”

            “It’s actually _happening!_ ” Bilbo whirled around and all but tackled Bofur with a jubilant whoop, shaking laughter pouring out of him. “I’m to be published!”

            Bofur chortled a bit as Bilbo suddenly let go of him to read the letter over again and again, chatting excitedly and animatedly and absolutely nonstop, only pausing for breath to occasionally clutch the thing to his chest and jump up and down like Frodo did when he’d just completed a picture.

            “I’m proud of ye, sunshine. After all this time, yer dreams are finally comin’ true fer you.”

            Bilbo was still trembling with adrenalin, and wiped a few joyful tears from the corner of his eye. “I n-never would have gotten here if it weren’t for you. You kept me going when I couldn’t write, you edited, you encouraged me all the more with every rejection letter.” His brown eyes were alight and shining, and he was smiling so hard that Bofur wondered if the top of his head might come off.

            Then again, he could feel his own face stretching into an identical grin – it was such a relief to see Bilbo smile his full, bright smile again after so long. Not that he’d been miserable, not by any means, and their marriage had thrilled him no end. But when he’d first sent off the manuscript of _There and Back Again_ , and been thoroughly rejected not once but several times over the course of eighteen months, Bofur had begun to worry that he’d never have all of Bilbo back again. It was his first real writing venture, a good chunk of his soul, and it had been torn apart by countless publishers. He’d become discouraged, self-deprecating.

            But now, now Bofur knew Bilbo was entirely himself again. The teasing, dancing light had returned to his spirit and he no longer looked so downtrodden. It caused a blooming warmth to rise up in Bofur’s chest, and he gently hugged his husband to him.

            “Were it not fer that book of yers, ye may never have waltzed into me shop,” he murmured. “Were it not fer that book, I may never have got t’fall so very much in love with ye.”

            Bilbo let out a shuddering sigh of contentment, went up on his toes to press a kiss to Bofur’s jaw. “Indeed that’s true. And I cannot thank you enough for berating me into letting you have a look at it.”

            “Sure and I can think of a few ways y’could thank me,” he said sweetly, waggling his eyebrows.

            Bilbo simply laughed some more and swatted at him with the papers. “It’s terrible you are. Just terrible, I tell you.”

            “Ach, ye love me and ye know it.”  

            “That I do.” He kissed Bofur fully then, long and slow and deep. “That I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL 
> 
> Seriously, it's been **such** a blast sharing this story with y'all. You guys are what make the writing process truly awesome; all your gorgeous support and encouragement and everything really does mean the world to me :3 *tacklehugs* 
> 
> Kisses + chocolate!
> 
> SA
> 
> \------------------------------------------  
> Edit: I HAVE A TUMBLR NOW EHEHEHEHE  
> rabidruminations.tumblr.com


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